The Butcher's Daughter
by Sincerely Marigold
Summary: To be read following "A Long and Lonely Mile". Ambitious young Mabel Tavington is a child of two generations. When a riding accident causes her to wake up in the 1700's, she is thrown into her first romance that is both as brief and ill-fated as her parents' had been. Will she be able to reconcile with the father that she once adored? Will he even know who she is? Complete.
1. The Steeplechase

Mabel Tavington's childhood fused with her adolescence like two metal barbs on a fence. By the time she was sixteen, Mabel was untouchable. Not cruel, but certainly resilient. Smart as a whip, Mabel had an uncommonly short stay at Waterford High before testing out during her sophomore year. She wouldn't miss the rude snickers of her peers each time she opened her show ribbon-lined locker between classes. Especially the heavily lip gloss'd girls who never missed an opportunity to sneer at Mabel's knee-high riding boots and competition-ready ponytail. She wouldn't miss her elders, either, with their never-ending commentary about how much she looked like Marigold or how "strong" she was, being able to attend school so close to where the Casey Schoolhouse once stood.

Training horses for show was all she knew. Like a mare who had been whipped and spurred into perfect form over the course of many years, Mabel was an exemplary rider. Trophies colonized nearly every flat surface in the farmhouse like clusters of stagnant, golden bees in a wooden hive. Ribbons and certificates masked the yellow damask wallpaper that Marigold had hung when she was still strong enough to do so. Mabel's name was dreaded and respected by prospective and returning competitors throughout the southern states. There wasn't a sport that she didn't excel in, except for the steeplechase.

The sporadic quake of the horse's canter, the wind, the grass and the water from the ponds conjoining into a cyclone and pounding down in a torrential rain should have thrilled her. The sensation of flight as each sprint becomes airborne; this is what most riders crave! But not Mabel. To her, there was nothing quite so beautiful as the order and discipline of dressage. And so, it was to dressage that she devoted her life; even though the lack of accolades as a steeplechase rider crushed down on her soul like an iron weight.

When the lacking became too much to bear, Mabel hitched Buttercup's trailer to her truck, drove to the course and trained day after day for five whole months. At night, while nursing her injuries and sore muscles in a lukewarm bath, she would curse her lack of improvement when her time stopped improving.

"I am nothing if I am not victorious!" She would mumble to the dissolving grains of Epsom salt as they scratched beneath her bare feet. When she was certain that there were no footfalls in the hallway or shadows creeping out from underneath the door, she'd slap the surface of the water with force. "I advance myself only through victory!" Victory, victory, victory. The word embedded itself into her brain, poisoning her mind like a victory-shaped tumor.

One night, Giselle the Eavesdropper, intervened on her brooding teenage goddaughter's pity party. "Bumblebee," she pounded on the door, "the pizza is getting cold."

"What did I tell you about pizza?" As Mabel rubbed a warm washcloth over her eyes, a blade of grass pricked her eyelid. "Pizza is 70% grease. Grease makes you sluggish. I will not be sluggish, I will be-" She moaned and pulled the shower curtain around the footed tub when Giselle cracked the door open.

"Victorious, schmictorious. You're killing me, Smalls." Giselle glanced in the mirror and fiddled with her curls before heading towards the muddled form of Mabel as she hunched over her knees in the tub. "Tommy Martin is downstairs."

To this, Mabel peeked her head out from behind the opaque curtain with a bright yellow rubber ducky design. Yet another obvious relic from her mother's reign in the farmhouse that Giselle didn't have the heart to discard of. "I hate him!"

"What an ugly word to come out of such a pretty gal's mouth!"

Giselle handed her a slice of semi-warm Hawaiian pizza on a napkin. With some reluctance, Mabel started to dab the grease away and took a bite of the cardboard-flavored morsel. "I fucking hate him." She repeated with her mouth full. "And I am going to stay right here, in this tub, until he leaves." The curtain was shut again with such force that the metal rings performed an elongated tap dance against their pole.

"Do me a favor and wash that mouth of yours out with soap before you're done in there..."

"What does he want, anyway? I thought that he left Waterford! He has some nerve showing his face-"

"Mabel!" Giselle whispered, sternly before turning to exit the room. Several ideas for punishment crossed her mind, but the cards that Mabel had been dealt regarding Tommy Martin were punishment enough. "You are going to have to swallow that pride of yours and fast because he is staying with us. Temporarily, until Tess gets back from Nashville."

The sixteen-year-old stuck her head out again, just long enough to wrinkle her freckle-dotted nose in disgust. "It's like you figured out the worst sentence to ever say to me and-"

"Don't flatter yourself. Since Jake and I are going out of town and your show on Saturday is in Charleston, I am going to need you to give him a ride that day, too…"

"How all occasions do inform against me!" Mabel shouted once she was behind the shower curtain again. She sprinkled the images of rubber ducks as she pounded her fist into the water in anger.

Giselle could be heard on the other side, chuckling while fussing over her blonde ringlets. "Is that Hamlet?"

"Focus, Mabel… focus. This is just another obstacle on a course that… You. Totally. Own."

"And she goes from reciting Shakespeare to sounding like a common teenager. Would you like anything else from downstairs while you're wallowing in your tub of self-pity and Epsom salt tears? Or have I completely thwarted your appetite?"

"Try obliterated!" Mabel shouted, melodramatically. "You understand why I'm upset, right? I need to be able to focus on Saturday! I'll be able to avoid that gangly, idiotic showboater of a man just fine. He'll probably sleep until noon and fall asleep on the couch with a bowl of deep fried turd balls from the Jade Garden like Jake does every night. But cramming him in a truck with me on the most important day of my young life-"

"I rest my case, young lady." Giselle interrupted, fearing that Mabel's voice had traveled through the house. "Theatre should be your fallback."

Mabel looked out one last time, "I don't need a fallback!" She fumed. "Pedestrian Equestrian named me the state's most promising young rider seven times before I turned ten! Before I stopped being a "pedestrian" and turned full "equestrian"! I have been on the cover of Horsing Around twice- and that magazine is sold by venders worldwide! I have twenty truckloads of trophies and ribbons from local, national, and global com-"

"-and the best part is, you never let your achievements get to your head! Not once!" Giselle's face turned red. "Your parents would be ashamed of you right now, Mabel Alexandria Tavington! Finish up in here before you turn into a spoiled little waterlogged prune."

The best act of defiance that Mabel could come up with was locking the door and remaining in the tub until roughly 10 PM. Whenever her bath started to turn cold, she'd draw more hot water, the sound of which inevitably carried through the house. Giselle almost went up to yell at her and considered sending Jake in her stead, but they allowed Mabel to continue her peculiar "protest" into the night.

Mabel was not a wicked girl, she wasn't even spoiled or conceited like Giselle had speculated during their confrontation. Her commitment to riding, along with many other factors, prevented the trio from ever becoming a real "family". Having someone in the house who was considered a demigod in the dressage world meant constant traveling and training. After testing out of high school and receiving her driver's license, Jake and Giselle felt as though the girl that had been theirs for the last seven years, had reached adulthood. All of them, Mabel especially, needed constant reminders that this was not the case- she was still a child- their child.

Mabel's avoidance of Tommy stretched into the final days of the week. On Friday evening, she drove into Waterford to pick up her jacket at the dry cleaner's. She always felt unnatural without her riding clothes on. There was, however, a blue flannel shirt that belonged to her father that Mabel felt a strong attachment to, but even it felt itchy and foreign from beneath the seatbelt as she drove. The coat needed additional hemming from its constant wear and required another twenty minutes at the shop, so Mabel took this opportunity to visit her parents.

The recent spring rains caused the flora around the cemetery to be in full bloom and she gathered a small bouquet to position between them. When she was younger, Mabel would give just a little more attention to her father and it wasn't until recent years that she felt a pang of guilt for leaving poor Marigold in her shadow. As their resting place came into view, Mabel realized that she wouldn't have to worry about such a thing this time, Marigold had a visitor. And she knew exactly who it was.

"Looks like you've found yourself a mode of transportation," Mabel shouted to Tommy Martin's khaki-clad back. As he turned to face her, she realized that a significant welling of tears masked his blue eyes. "I assume you won't be needing me, anymore?" She continued her original thought, in hopes of concealing just how much those tears of his affected her.

"Good evening, Mabel," he wiped his eyes against his sleeve and forced a smile. Although he was approaching his 30's, Tommy remained childlike in his face and mannerisms. Mabel knew him as a jokester, always vying for laughs and seeking optimism in every situation. Giselle tried to explain to Mabel once how Tommy mirrored Marigold's outlook and levity. She heard nothing but wonderful things about him her whole life, but he would always be the man who stole her father away from her. "Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like…"

"What?" Mabel groaned, "a tuba? A sprig of mint? A wedge of cake from the fair?"

"She was funny, too." Another tear moved across his face. This time, he allowed it to fall without intervention. "Just like that."

"I'm not funny," Mabel brushed past him and placed the flowers between William and Marigold. "Whoever's been giving you the lowdown on me all these years is dead wrong." An awkward pause ensued. "So, where did you disappear to all of a sudden and why did you come back?"

"Michigan," he said, flatly, "uhm, there was a failed marriage and a divorce in there at some point. And I returned because this is where my family is and that's typically what people do after a separation. How's that for an answer?"

"Let me guess, the marriage failed because you're still hung up on my mom. My very, very dead mom."

"That's not fair, Mabel." His face was the most solemn Mabel had ever seen it. "That's actually a really horrible thing to say to someone you hardly know."

"Well, Tommy," she uncrossed her arms, opening herself for the blows of any storm that she might have just unleashed, "since tomorrow is a very important day for me and I'm going to have you distracting me with your presence for the better part of it, I figured we should get any awkwardness out of the way now. I ride poorly when my mind is otherwise occupied."

Tommy's eyes dropped to his shoes, another boyish tick that still latched onto him from childhood. "I didn't even stay one night in the farmhouse. Left about ten minutes after your recitation of Hamlet…"

Mabel's face turned white. Since Tommy's arrival, she left to ride at the crack of dawn and returned home, though the back door, late at night. Any time they might have crossed paths would have been in the kitchen and she'd made a stash of food in her room and truck along with a bit of money for eating out to prevent such an event from transpiring. Had she really been avoiding an invisible man all this time?

"Don't feel bad," Tommy seemed to console her, "I have friends here in Waterford, too. Believe it or not."

If the drive home from the cleaners wasn't hellish enough, the drive to Charleston the next morning was tenfold. She was always doing this, it seemed, creating more problems for herself while failing to rid herself of one. "Hate" was a word that she associated with Tommy. Considering how much her father had suffered because of him, it seemed justified. But she did not hate him, not really.

"Focus, Mabel," she whispered under her breath as the emerald green steeplechase field came into view. "Your problems are back in Waterford. Let them stay in Waterford." It was hardly any use. Tommy hadn't been present for the drive there, but everything from the look on his face and the tears that hung from his eyes were fresh in her mind. "Channel your frustration," those harsh, internalized whispers continued as she rode to the starting gate.

Before the adrenaline kicked in, fear was all she felt. The track and jumps appeared before her like the pages of a horror story. She knew the plot, the distances between each thrill and scare… it was silly to be afraid of something so predictable and yet, she was. "Channel your frustration. That stupid loser walked through your mind palace in his muddy boots. So, what are you going to do about it?"

The bugle's fanfare was heard in full force from inside her barrier stall. While the other horses snorted and stomped, Mabel's senior mare, Buttercup remained still and straight. They both did. This wasn't their element and in the moments before the metallic bells chimes, they shared this mutual thought. "We are going to lose."

"Hey, Tavington," the throaty voice of a neighboring rider traveled through the bars, "Tavington!" Mabel broke focus just long enough to glare. "Big fan," the narrow-faced boy's smile quickly matched Mabel's look of disgust. "Too bad I'm going to have to destroy you out there!"

When the race began, the pair was of riders were still stabbing one another with their eyes. Mabel was the first to turn and shot off into the field with a loud crack of her whip. The leader was already several horses ahead and it wasn't long before the boy from the starting gate whirred by the pin-straight horse and rider.

"You and your pathetic mount should stick to what you know," he called from over his shoulder, "go back to your sandbox and bore us all to tears!"

The boy was clearly taunting her. To make matters worse, she believed him and they fell into last place before the first jump. Mabel's face reddened with anger as she drove her spur into the old palomino's side. "Go, go, go!" She hollered as the wind caught her tears and blew them onto the visor of her helmet. Buttercup's gate lengthened and they soared over the first jump with as much precision and grace as a streamlined jet. When they caught up with the pack, Mabel's commands grew in their aggression. She even stuck her tongue out at her heckler as they passed him by.

They made their way up to fifth place when it happened. Mabel could feel Buttercup's stamina decrease. Despite her love for the horse that she had grown up beside; her whipping, spurring and shouting turned ruthless. The final jumps were higher than the rest. If they could hold on for a few more seconds, they would place. But placing wasn't good enough. She had to win.

The final launch was flawless and the flight was, too. The landing would have been equally impressive if Buttercup's hoof hadn't lodged itself in the fixture, causing Mabel to tumble from her back and into the moss-lined pond below. She hunted for the reins and had every intention of mounting and finishing with integrity, but she rose too soon and the pounding of a dozen hooves cracked her helmet and pulverized her back like hailstones. By the time the last horse made its jump, the tenacious young Mabel was face down in the water and it was there that she remained.

Memories flew by in Mabel's conscience at a dizzying pace like reels of film set in fast-forward. She expected to meet her parents on the other side of whatever threshold she had passed. Her father's handsome face, as it was before the selfish fire had stolen it away, remained at the forefront of her mind. His was the face that she would look for and so desperately longed to see. But all that she could see was blackness, all that she could feel was the cool water until finally, the water moved around her, suggesting a forward motion.

She would have passed by unsuspected if Thomas Martin hadn't grown so fascinated by the river that flowed alongside his family's farm. Since the discovery of the bodies that floated by on the current like souls set adrift in the rivers of the underworld, he would sneak off frequently to watch this mesmerizingly grotesque display. Young boys are morbid that way. The carnage was minimal the day that he discovered her- beautiful and sweet with her golden-brown hair billowing beneath her as the dark waters carried her along. Her lips parted, just wide enough to draw in air and the only deviation from her beauty, the slightest notch between her two front teeth came into view. Thomas dove in, without thinking. Within moments of wading through the shallow, murky water, Mabel hung limply from his arms.

"Miss," he unfastened the button on her black riding coat and touched his palm to her heart. She was the most peculiarly dressed woman he'd ever seen! In the hollow of her throat, a silver bee pendent glistened as she breathed, distracting Thomas for only a moment. "Miss!" His touch moved to her face and he wiped clean the beads of water that latched onto her restful features and tiny, freckled nose. Although her eyes were shut, Thomas could tell by their shape that they were large and wide. "Can you hear me, Miss?" His hand reached for hers.

As Mabel's grip tightened around his fingers, her eyelids convulsed momentarily before opening. Thomas saw in one glance that her eyes were bluer than the highest bend in the heavens on a cloudless day. Blue and calculating, they narrowed, almost in anger, as they took in the face of her "rescuer".

Thomas was uncertain of what he had done to receive such a venomous stare. He also couldn't make sense of the sensation in his chest that this unusual young woman gave him. Surely, he had seen her before. Perhaps, it was only in his deepest and most secretive dreams. It didn't take but a moment for his foolish, teenage heart to react to the treasure that he had found- he loved Mabel Tavington instantly.

 **Author's Note: Just to give you a feel for how long I can go without writing fanfic. Lol. Since I'm back in class, updates will occur less frequently than they did over the summer (weekly, I'm thinking). The insanity continues... yay!?**


	2. River of the Dead

The silence between them was brief and weighted. Thomas shuffled through the options of what to ask her first, but Mabel beat him to the chase by asking the only question that mattered to her at the time:

"Have you seen my horse?" Her cold stare traveled from the lanky young man in front of her to the surrounding landscape. When she managed to sit upright, she found that the track, the crowd and the other racers had vanished into thin air. All that could be found was the river that she had been pulled from and its healthy, green semblance of riparian vegetation.

"Your… horse?" Thomas backed away from her, but only slightly. Baffled and intrigued, he tried to gain back Mabel's attention as her search for Buttercup began. Surely, he deserved more kindness and respect than she was giving him! He did just save her, after all! "Miss?" He continued, climbing over top of the damp, rocky terrain with far less grace and precision that Mabel. This embarrassed him slightly, but he wouldn't give that away as he proceeded to woo her. "You're going the wrong way. If your horse is out there, it's probably downstream. You were going that way when I saved you from the rapids."

Mabel stopped and turned on the platform of a tall, smooth rock. "Rapids" was an overstatement and they both knew it. Her expression changed from frustration to something that Thomas couldn't quite read. "Oh." She mumbled. Before he could interject, Mabel leapt to the ground and started heading in the other direction. "You're right!" Her sopping ponytail clapped against her back as she jogged towards smoother ground. She was disoriented and secretly frightened by the sensation of being one place in one moment and another in the next. The only way that she could remedy this fear, it seemed, was by remaining in motion.

"What does your horse look like?" He followed behind her like an eager, unwavering shadow. "I can help you find him! Two pairs of eyes are better than one!"

"Buttercup is a palomino and, for your information, she is a girl." Mabel explained without looking back. "She is easily the finest show horse in South Carolina and I am the finest rider. Neither of us should be running amuck in the wilderness, if you understand what I'm saying." When Thomas laughed, she turned and produced another seemingly heartless glare. "What's so funny!?"

"You can't be that good," he teased, as young boys often do when they are completely smitten, "to be thrown into the river like you were! Besides, you aren't in the wilderness! My family owns this land and I know its surrounding forests and waters like the back of my hand! If you're South Carolina's finest rider, then I am its finest guide!" Thomas caught up with her in the clearing and imposed an awkward handshake. "What is your name, Miss?"

"Uhm," her forehead creased the second their hands clasped, "Mabel. Hi. Look, not that I don't believe in propriety, because I do, but I am in the middle of something of a crisis here!" She allowed herself a few seconds to get a better look at Thomas, who was just as bewildered as she was. A few seconds was all it took. She knew him. If not, in a different form. "You look like Tommy Martin," she said, bluntly, pursing her lips once her thought was concluded.

Thomas retrieved his hand and crossed his arms. So, she did know him! And he knew her! But how? And they had met before! But when? "I thought I knew you from somewhere! And it's Thomas, but I'll gladly be 'Tommy' for you." He wiggled his eyebrows as best he could. Naturally, this gesture was merely awkward and darling… and anything but suave.

Several boys attempted to flirt with Mabel while she was growing up. She was smart enough to sense their intentions right away and was usually spectacular at finding something better to do and therefore, letting them know that she was both unobtainable and uninterested. The only means of avoidance in this case was to keep walking, and that's exactly what she did.

"Nope," she grunted with a sharp turn, "Thomas will do. It's the same amount of syllables, after all. Since nicknames were originally created to shorten the syllable count, I think it's silly that-" her train of thought was cut off in order to produce a shrill scream. A ghastly body of a fallen British soldier was enclosed between two boulders on the natural embankment below her feet. She fell backwards, right into Thomas and shook with terror momentarily before successfully pulling herself together. "Nice river!" When her fallback pillow of sarcasm failed, Mabel shot off, away from the embankment, the deceased, and her invasive companion.

"Where did you say you were from?" Thomas asked, when he finally caught up with her. "And where have you been over the last two years? For a lady who spends so much time outside that she results to wearing trousers… well, I'd think you'd be used to seeing carnage."

"The last two years?" She sat down on a thick, mossy branch, facing away from the river. If only this Thomas character would grant her some time to gather her wits! Mabel knew what this implied. Not only had she believed that her father was a man from another era; it took one elongated glance into Peggy Shippen's biography, followed by several attempts at conversation with Giselle to make the connection. The uniform on the fallen soldier confirmed her suspicions. But why now? Had her accident on the steeplechase field been fatal? She shut her eyes tighter and tighter as Thomas' adoring, albeit unwelcome stare beat down on her. "How far away is Waterford?"

"A three hour walk by foot. Two and a half if we take my shortcut." As he attempted a wink, the right side of his face scrunched slightly. "I have a friend in Waterford. Charlie's his name. And he has this teacher who looks almost exactly like you!"

Mabel rubbed the wrinkly surface of her tightly closed eyelids. "That's really cool, Thomas…"

"According to Charlie, she's very unusual. One day in class, she had everyone make kites and fly them in an open field! Then, they had to write poems about it! Even the boys! I don't care how pretty she is, Miss Casey would never get a poem out of me!" He turned redder than an apple. Something that he had just said ignited another one of Mabel's icy glares. "I just inadvertently admitted that I find you pretty, didn't I?"

"Casey?" She patted the branch, inviting Thomas to sit beside her. "Which Casey?" All that she received was a shrug. "Can you take me to Ms. Casey, please?"

He adjusted his hat and grinned before placing his hands on his hips in true Peter Pan-style, "Your wish is my command!"

They ran, to Mabel's relief, away from the river and across the fields of green corn that were still glistening with a coat of morning dew. Thomas reached for Mabel's hand several times and on the third attempt, she allowed him to hang on. When they grew tired, their paces slowed, but their hands remained clasped. Mabel's eyes fell to the grass below her feet when Thomas moved his thumb across her knuckles.

"There aren't any cities," she caught her breath, taking in the fog-covered horizon. Mabel recognized the terrain as the distant hills that connected suburban Waterford and Pembroke. "That will all change, of course. Give it a couple hundred years. It's a shame because it used to be so beautiful."

Thomas didn't understand her musing in the slightest, but remained entranced. They'd only just met less than an hour ago and had he been a little bit older, he would have realized how irrational he was being. As Mabel breathed, a stream of smoke passed through her lips. It swirled and spun like a tiny galaxy between them. He longed to travel through that unexplored space and not stop until after he granted her an innocent kiss. But Thomas was much too shy to make such a bold journey. "You're beautiful," he managed to say, and left it at that.

"I can actually find the schoolhouse from here," she wiggled her hand free, finding it rather annoying that boys in the 1700's use banter that is just as cheesy as in present day South Carolina. She did feel bad, however, to see that smile plummet from the adorably uncouth boy's face. "Do you own this land, too?"

"The property line ended when we crossed that wooden fence earlier. You still have quite a ways to walk! But if you have grown tired of me… well. You can, however, come and see me whenever you wish! We could be friends. If you'll have me. I have younger siblings, but it's still been very lonely for me since my brother went off to war. I haven't gone exploring with anyone in months! And you… you're not like my younger brothers or sisters. You're fearless and tough. And I really like that about you. I really like you, Mabel."

The coldness in her eyes melted into something else. She was being irrational, too- just in a different way. Thomas didn't deserve the hostility that he'd received from her during their time together. She smiled widely and confessed into the ground, "I haven't gone exploring with anyone in a very long time, either." Her body tensed as her confidence in him seemed to grow against her will. "Everything has been practice, practice, practice since I lost Fa seven years ago."

"Fa?" Thomas asked, carefully.

"My father," her eyes remained glued on the barren earth between her boots, "he was my best friend. We went everywhere together. You probably don't want to hear this." Again, Mabel could feel Thomas reaching for her hand and like before, she invited it. She wanted to know why she was here and if she could follow the tracks left behind by the Casey Family to find her father. But for now, Thomas had quickly gone from an annoyance to a tailor-made friend. She wanted to spend more time with him and Waterford would always be there. "What's your favorite thing to do here?"

"Before today?"

He was proving to be quite the flirt and would require a close watch. "You're the reason why girl's daddies have shot guns, you know?" Mabel laughed, louder than she had in a great, long while. "Let's assume I haven't grown tired of you yet. Where would you like to go?"

His grip tightened and off they ran. Mabel was surprised at herself, she hadn't thought about dressage for at least a half an hour! It felt good. Liberating. To just be a teenage girl, running down a country road with a charming stranger. They avoided the river as best they could, but had to cross it at least once before reaching the destination that Thomas had chosen. But the fun was short lived. As they neared the tall grasses, Mabel made another terrible discovery.

"Oh, no." She gasped, forcing Thomas into a clumsy halt in front of her. "Oh, no…" Sprawled on the ground on the other side of the water was her beautiful palomino. Mabel dashed over the slick rocks to the side of her oldest friend. "She's okay! She's still alive!" She called, fighting to keep her tears from leaving her eyes and falling into Buttercup's wheat-colored mane. As the elderly mare inhaled a shallow breath, dried blood crackled around the edges of her nostrils. "I was so hard on her," Mabel said slowly, locating the bits of flesh that she had whipped raw. "I wanted to win so badly and I…" a puddle of blood on the ground beside the horse's leg grabbed her attention. There would be no healing Buttercup. Her leg had bust open during the final jump in the race. Mabel looked up at Thomas, trying with all of her might to appear in control. "The rifle on your back. Is it loaded?"

"Mabel," his hand moved to the strap. He knew little of horse racing, but growing up on a farm enabled him to understand the measures that one must take when a large animal is suffering. "You shouldn't have to do this. Please. Allow me-"

"No!" She willed her tears away with aggression and forced her voice to remain steady. "I'm the one who made her suffer. I should be the one to relieve her. It's best to do it quickly. If only I'd known what had happened to her sooner…"

Thomas wanted to console her, but Mabel's second demand for the rifle was filled with more anger than the first. He watched as she stroked the poor creature's velvety muzzle and hummed several measures of an unfamiliar song. Her humming grew louder to hide the rifle's "click" as the bullet moved into place. When Mabel was sure that Buttercup was unaware of what was happening, she stood. Then, she rolled back her shoulders, taking on a powerful, confident stance and fired a single bullet into the horse's golden temple.

When the smoke receded, Mabel bent like a willow tree. Death usually didn't make her cry. It wasn't until after she left her father's side all those years ago that she allowed herself to grieve in full force. It was the same for Buttercup- a drought, a painful dry spell, deprived of the release of falling tears.

"Those victories weren't mine," Mabel confessed, laying the weapon on the grass, "they were ours. I spent all those years thinking that I was something special- God's gift to the riding world and the truth is, I don't think I even know how to ride another horse. I don't even know if I want to try."

The shot that Mabel had fired didn't go unanswered. Within moments, another shot rang through the forest. Then another and then another.

"We aren't safe here!" Thomas whispered, fearfully. "Just about anywhere can become a combat zone these days."

They both knew that the shots weren't far off, but Mabel didn't like the idea of leaving Buttercup behind without so much as a backwards glance. "She has the flowers and the sound of the river, I suppose. Perhaps it isn't so terrible of a gesture to leave her here."

Cries from the approaching troops coincided with the gunfire. The children ducked down as they moved through the tall grasses and out of harm's way. The farm wasn't far, especially in a full sprint. Busting through the barrier that the wooden fence made was like gaining sanctuary, but the gunfire behind them was both thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Mabel leaned her back against the pole once she knew that she was safe, "I don't know what I'm doing here." The tears that she had fought so hard to suppress began to fall. "Everything and everyone I ever love gets snatched away in the cruelest and most elaborate ways, it seems. Why?"

Thomas didn't know how to answer this. He didn't even attempt to touch her for fear that she might combust entirely. To his surprise and relief, she reached for him and placed their intertwined hands between them, on her folded ankles as she cried.

"Where did you come from, Mabel?" He asked as her tears subsided. "I want to help you, but I don't even know who you are…"


	3. Long Ago in Waterford

There was no way that he would believe the truth, no matter how Mabel delivered it. Lost, alone and an orphan- those were the only things that Thomas Martin would ever know her to be. Her ambiguity only drove his fascination; but Mabel knew that there were some gaps that she would have to bridge with distractions. This would be a painless task. She was half-Casey, after all, and could talk her way out of a Kryptonian toolshed!

"Every time poor Fredrick tries to hold her hand or begin a conversation, she starts belting out… melismas? But he never loses patience?" Thomas hung like a sloth from a tree branch, taking a quick bite out of a golden apple. "Now, that's devotion!"

"It's a pretty ridiculous namesake, isn't it?" Mabel smiled up at him. "I wouldn't put it past Ma, though. Fa brought a box of her books up from the basement when I was learning how to read and nearly all of them were plays and librettos. They even went to see _Pirates of Penzance_ in Charleston several months before I was born."

"They must have been very wealthy! Not even my Aunt Charlotte can afford to see most of the plays that pass through Charlestown! And this one sounds very elaborate!" He climbed down, to the low branch that Mabel had situated herself on, and offered her an apple.

"What if she doesn't like me?" She juggled the oblong orb from hand to hand. "Fa waited for Ma outside of the building that she was teaching in and ended up changing her life for the better. But it's still an imposition, no matter how you look at it."

"Miss Casey is notoriously strange, but I understand that she is also very kind. Besides, I can't think of a person alive today who wouldn't love to meet you."

Mabel began to nervously twist the stem of the apple until it broke off in her hand. "Why are so you nice to me, Thomas? Where I come from, I'm viewed by my peers as person to beat or, on those rare occurrences when I'm not around other riders, I'm the freak who accidentally wore a riding helmet to a party at the Cineplex. That was the one time I got invited to go anywhere, too!"

"You're beautiful and mysterious," he nudged her shoulder, "and even though I have no idea what you're talking about most of the time, I can tell that you don't know how to be anything other than exactly what you are."

Mabel laughed through her nose, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Have you seen the other women in Waterford? Or even Charlestown? They're all so straight-laced, refined and irritatingly boring. You, on the other hand, you're just Mabel."

"You're a really awkward flirt, you know that?" She patted his forearm and it seemed to remedy his nervous shaking, just a little bit.

"You're the only girl I've ever been interested in, so…"

"What if," Mabel touched his arm again and this time, Thomas grabbed her hand before she could move it away, "you find out who I am and don't like me anymore?" When he gave the top of her hand a tiny kiss, this seemed to be the only answer that she needed. There was no force in heaven and on earth that would pull him from her side. "I don't think that I can be your girlfriend, Thomas."

"Then be my friend." He said, quickly. It was clear to Mabel that he wouldn't like to hear this, but he seemed to hide his disapproval well.

"I can do that," she looked down at her shiny boots as they swung back and forth in the air, "… at least, I think I can. It's strange, Buttercup became my closest friend when I lost Fa. Somehow, fate saw to it that you would come along and fill the empty space that she left me with." Her clear blue eyes moved upwards to trace the green horizon. "I just might end up liking it here after all…"

Annabelle's students erupted from the building not long after. Most of them were wearing what appeared to be masks made of painted parchment paper. Thomas gravitated towards a black-haired boy who Mabel assumed was his friend, Charlie. When she didn't see the young woman who her mother had resembled so closely and therefore, Mabel must have as well, she moved closer to the tiny red schoolhouse. Merely standing beneath the doorframe was chilling and Mabel couldn't help but briefly imagine the same building engulfed in flames as it swallowed her dear father whole.

"Miss Casey?" Her hushed voice quivered and nearly snapped under pressure. "Excuse me, Miss Casey?" The rows of cluttered desks were entirely silent. Mabel was about to give up her search when a small blonde woman sprung out from behind the footed chalkboard, her willowy arms were hooked at the end like a velociraptor's and on her face, she wore a paper tabby cat mask.

"Reaaaaaaow!" The woman leapt from side to side before dropping to the floor to rub up against Mabel's riding boots.

"Miss… Casey?"

"I'm not Miss Casey," she declared with pride from her place on the floor, "I'm a cat! Can't you tell?"

"Well, I mean," Mabel's eyes followed the peculiar woman as she prowled around the room, "you certainly do resemble a cat in your mannerisms if that's what you want to hear." She choked back a laugh as another nasal "cat" noise filled the air. Of course, this was Annabelle Casey- Waterford's very first weirdo.

"If you could be any animal, what would you be, Mabel?" Annabelle pounced on a triangular scrap of paper that had fallen from one of her student's desks.

"You actually know who I am?" Her eyes widened as the "feline" stretched out on the floor, wadding the paper and tossing it into the air. She took her time doing this before catching the paper in her mouth, crossing to Mabel and dropping it at her feet like a cat would with a dead mouse.

"Scratch behind the ears, please. I just brought you a very special present and it's the respectful thing to do! Cats respond better to respect."

Mabel hesitated before finding the pointed ears on the mask and giving them a tiny scratch with her shortened fingernails. Annabelle seemed pleased and after a few content "purrs", she jumped to her feet, pulled off the mask, threw her wide, blonde braid over her shoulder and gave Mabel a tight, but genuine hug. "Cousin!" she bellowed, "What brings you to Waterford? Did Uncle Paul finally give you the boot?" She pulled back, just long enough to take Mabel in. "Your eyes got even bluer," her tiny nose wrinkled as she laughed, "I never knew eyes could do that."

Mabel was incredibly nervous during this strange reunion. For Annabelle, she was merely being reunited with another Casey who lived up North. But Annabelle was something entirely different to Mabel, although she was only three years older than her, she was the closest thing to a living photograph of her mother that she would ever find.

"Scarlett and Delilah will be so pleased to have another gal in the house," Annabelle trilled as she spun the key in the lock. "Charlie! Quit dawdling and hurry along home!"

Mabel glanced up and sure enough, both Charlie and Thomas were climbing back and forth like spider monkeys on the apple tree's highest limbs. This caused a torrential rain of leaves and apples to pound down on the ground. "Thomas?"

"Yes, m'lady!?" Once he landed on his feet, he gave a clumsy bow.

"Thank you for helping me get to Waterford safely! I will be staying with the Caseys tonight, but would love to meet up with you again sometime." Again, disappointment found its way to the young man's face and again, Mabel could feel herself cave. The opportunity to get to know Annabelle and her sisters, however, stole her interest away from Thomas- for the time being, anyway. "Tomorrow, perhaps?" She grinned to see his face light up.

"Tomorrow it is!"

Annabelle was nothing like William. Mabel had been told of their history together by her father and Giselle in fragments, like an episodic fairytale that seemed almost too distant from reality to be true. Still, imagining her waiflike and frankly, silly, young ancestor becoming entrapped in what would be an everlasting, time-altering romance with her rugged and intense "Fa" was almost impossible! Her mind wandered to Thomas, inevitably, while playing this mental game of matchmaker. As much as she denied it earlier, Thomas and herself were terrifyingly similar. Far more similar than she and Annabelle were proving to be, anyway.

How on earth did Annabelle and William come to be in the first place? The first question that Mabel managed to ask in pursuit of this answer was whether she had ever spoken in length with any of King George's men.

"I keep to myself for the most part," was her answer. "They seem to mind their own business, too. Thankfully. Why do you ask?"

"They are rather invasive up north," Mabel responded, quickly, "I'm happy to hear that isn't the case down here." She took a deep breath and allowed her questioning to grow in boldness. "Have any of them ever approached you at the schoolhouse?"

"Heavens no!" Annabelle gasped, clutching even tighter to the collection of teaching materials that were slowly weighing on her thin, pale arms. "And I hope they never do!"

Mabel resigned from questioning for a while. She'd clearly landed herself in the time leading up to Annabelle's first encounter with William Tavington. But by how long?

"You know, Mabel," said Annabelle as they turned onto a road shared by the Casey and Whitley Farms, "you've changed quite a bit since the last time I saw you. Bluer eyes and… shiny black boots. The Mabel I remember was always barefoot, covered in mud and the furthest thing from refined." She began to pick away at the worn edges of one of her beloved books of poetry. "You're younger than me and yet, you managed to grow up first!"

This was the last thing that Mabel wanted to hear. Her hopes of Annabelle becoming a mother figure for her in this era were dashed back at the schoolhouse- but this statement both solidified her suspicion and made Mabel feel even more vulnerable and alone. "I'm not that grown up!" She laughed. "Why, earlier this evening, Thomas and I-"

"Ah, the boy you were with! How dreadful of me to split you two up! He isn't from Waterford, is he?"

"I don't think so. We met earlier when I passed by his farm."

"Really?!" Annabelle gave Mabel's ponytail a playful tug and laughed loudly at the resulting scowl, "I could have sworn you two knew one another your whole lives, the way you were carrying on!"

"Well, you know… sometimes you find yourself face to face with a perfect stranger and connection is so strong that it almost seems as if you've known them, I don't know, in a past life or something. Does that make sense?"

A cryptic smile graced Annabelle's pretty pink lips. "Do you enjoy poetry, Mabel? Because that sounds like the kind of observation a poet might make…"

"I'm nothing of the sort," her eyes moved to the large, white house and corral that belonged to the Whitley family, "I'm a bit more interested in… horses."

"Well," Annabelle seemed pleased, "I'll have to introduce… or, re-introduce you to the Whitleys! I have a feeling you'll be right at home here!"

Mabel nodded in confirmation as the familiar thunder of hooves from the nearby horse farm shook the ground and filled the air. It was, indeed, beginning to seem that way!

 **Author's Note: Thank you so much for the feedback and reads on the first two chapters! I had so much fun developing Tommy in my previous story and always thought that Thomas was such a little doll in the film. If not, a bit of an awkward, brooding teenager (thank goodness Mabel is one, too!) Sorry for the shortness of this chapter- it was difficult finding a good spot to break off/transition into chapter 4. Technical stuff. There's much more on the way! X**


	4. Soon it's Gonna Rain

Recall that secret place. You've been there, you remember:

That special place where once- Just once- in your crowded, sunlit lifetime,

You hid away in shadow from the tyranny of time.

That spot beside the clover where someone's hand held your hand

And love was sweeter than the berries, or the honey, or the stinging taste of mint.

It is September- before a rainfall- a perfect time to be in love.

-El Gallo (The Fantasticks)

Right away, the Casey's farmhouse felt like home. Annabelle and her younger sisters were boisterous, energetic and their presence in the tiny space reminded Mabel of a riding camp she attended shortly after losing her father. Giselle had been so concerned about her lack of a "support system" and, well, to make a long story short, Mabel holed up for the entire eight-week program, ate her meals while enclosed in a bathroom stall and hardly spoke to the other girls, even her roommates. This time was different- better. Not only did the Casey Girls like Mabel, but she liked them in return.

During the day, Annabelle would head into town and teach until the early evening. Scarlett and Delilah did not attend school, but were very well-read and clever, regardless. Mabel would spend most of her time assisting them with housekeeping and yes, she would sneak out to see Thomas whenever the opportunity presented itself.

In the evenings, Mabel would stretch out on her bed in the small, clean room that Annabelle had prepared after her first night there. When her mind wasn't busy regaling itself with the lazy, late-summer runs through rural 1770's South Carolina with a certain precious, silly young man; Mabel would think of her father.

"He's out there," she would muse, memorizing the new and strange shadows on her ceiling, "wicked and unchanged. Will he know me when he sees me? Will I somehow interfere with the influence that Annabelle will have on him?" Her concern for Annabelle grew with her curiosity- but the events of one evening in particular forced Mabel to reconcile with the fact that she was becoming almost too attached to the wayward nineteen-year-old girl:

"I, for one, think it's fantastically progressive for a woman to favor trousers over skirts!" Annabelle beamed, tossing a stack of the clothes that her father had left behind on Mabel's bed. "Not to mention, it must make it easier to ride."

"Yes, much." Mabel searched through the collection of pants, shyly. "I'll only need one pair, you know. To wear on laundry day."

"This is a just-in-case scenario. Besides, Father won't be coming back for a while!"

"You must miss him," Mabel pushed the clothes aside, making room for Annabelle to sit beside her.

"We all do. We worry about him all the time, too. He's a very quiet man. Smart. Hardly the kind of person you might imagine fighting in a war. But it's always the quietest people who end up being the most surprising." She let out one of her famously loud, albeit endearing laughs. "I must be in real trouble, then!"

"You'll end up surprising yourself soon enough, I'm sure." Silently, Mabel revisited her words and could almost feel her heart cracking inside of her chest. She didn't know all the details, but had an understanding of what Annabelle's fate would be. Knowing that someone so lively, humorous and kind was nearing a meeting that would seal her doom was almost too much to bear.

"Look!" Annabelle sprung from the bed to kneel beside the window. "They don't visit us for very long, but when they do- ah! They're the closest creatures to fairies that nature provides. Hummingbirds aside, of course."

Mabel's pain only grew with her sweet ancestor's discovery. The appearance of the fireflies was like an omen. It wouldn't be long before William Tavington would capture Annabelle's heart and set her tragedy in motion.

"Do you have any paper laying around? And possibly some scissors?" Mabel asked, in hopes of steering their conversation away from the fireflies. "I have something fun for you to teach your students."

She took the bait right away and returned quickly with two armfuls of parchment and partially rusted scissors.

"Okay," Mabel cut into the thinnest piece that she could find, creating a square for Annabelle and a square for herself. "I'll go really slow, so don't worry! Fold your paper on both diagonals to make an 'x'. Good. Now, flip it and do the same thing on this side…" several minutes into her demonstration, the ever-restless Annabelle dropped out and focused instead on guessing what Mabel was trying to make. "The head and beak are the hardest parts because they're so tiny. You almost have to force your pinky nail under there… alrighty then! Now on to the wings."

"It's a hummingbird!" Annabelle craned her neck to achieve a better look at the intricately folded paper. "What a beautiful trick!"

"It's not a trick," Mabel explained, placing the tiny bird in Annabelle's equally petite hand, "it's called Origami and it comes from Japan. It's amazing the things that you can learn when you're stuck in the back seat, traveling from one competition to another!"

"Competition?"

Did that really just slip out? Mabel was growing weary of lying through her teeth to everyone around her and yet, the truth was beginning to seem foreign, even to herself. "I ride. Horses. For show," she started. When Annabelle became occupied with bobbing the hummingbird up and down in "flight", the tension of the moment seemed to dissipate.

"You northerners are weird," she snickered. "But wonderful. Would you show me how to make the hummingbird again? Or write out the instructions?"

Indulgently, Mabel chopped into two more pieces of paper, then three and four. Before the midnight hour chimed in, Annabelle had covered nearly all of the floor with paper hummingbirds and several failed attempts at stars following Mabel's sleepy instructions.

"I'll have to pick the prettiest one to send to Father! Or-ah-gah-me sounds like a wonderful gift to enclose in a letter. All of the other men in his camp will be so envious! Perhaps I'll send some for them as well! Not everyone has a family to write home to, you know…"

Mabel's heart softened even more. She had so little to give to Annabelle in return for her kindness; teaching her how to make the hummingbirds was the closest thing to a gift that she could come up with. Yet, all that Annabelle wished to do with them was gift them to others. Perhaps she really was akin to the lovely, selfless Marigold that she never had the chance to know.

…

"You always look so relieved to see me," Mabel laughed as she strode across the narrow pathway between two tall rows of cornstalks. When she reached Thomas, she whacked the edge of his hat, causing it to fall down over his eyes.

"Well, one day you might wake up and forget. Or find something more interesting to do with your time." He refused to fix the obstruction, and instead turned his head from side to side, causing an eruption of laughter from Mabel.

"You're probably right, I should get out more! What would you like to do today, Loser?"

"That all depends," to stifle her teasing, he removed his hat entirely and plopped it onto Mabel's golden-brown head, "did you steal the key like I asked you to?"

"No, I did something far more civilized! I asked Annabelle for it and she leant it to me. We'll have to drop it off once we're done there…"

Thomas crossed his arms, "Good going, Sissy. She's probably going to check in on us, now!"

"Well, if you'd stop being so mysterious and let me know what we're going to be doing there…"

He gave a crooked, mischievous grin and proceeded to stroll towards town. "You're probably going to laugh at me, anyway…"

"Yes," Mabel caught up and walked alongside him, all smiles, "that's pretty much guaranteed."

"I've known you a whole week come Monday. We have fun together, don't we, Mabel? You taught me how to race horses without falling off, I taught you how to hunt without blowing those pretty little fingers off-"

She widdled her rough fingers, blistered and leathery from years of riding and work. "Give me a break. They aren't pretty."

"They're very pretty," Thomas admitted, reaching for her hand. "Now, I'm a fairly simple man." Mabel let out a very unladylike snort-laugh, which threw him off, but only momentarily. "I show all of my cards. Just about anybody can get to know me in about two hours of conversation… but I still have no idea who you are."

"What would you like to know?" She asked, slowly, as they entered the presently small and humble town of Waterford.

"Let's start with the bee…"

Mabel reached for the silver bee pendent that rested beneath her collarbone. "Oh," she chuckled, "well, that's not a very interesting story at all! My mother was an advocate for pollinators. Hummingbirds and bees were her favorites. You can't really have a hummingbird farm, so she started farming bees after she married my father. Or something like that. Her nickname was 'Hummingbird', mine is 'Bumblebee', and… that's really all that I know about it!" She pondered briefly for a better explanation, but was unsuccessful. Then, she reached into the pocket of her doeskin-colored riding pants, removed the key and unlocked the schoolhouse. "Now, are you going to tell me what we're doing at a school on a Saturday. Which is viewed as blasphemy where I come from, by the way…"

"Stand in the middle of the room, between those two desks." Thomas instructed once inside, trying to sound authoritative. When he closed the door, Mabel laughed, yet again. "I have a question for you and I know you have the answer."

"You're such a dork!" Her expression changed when Thomas moved in front of her. He appeared neither playful nor threatening, but afraid and almost, sad. "Okay, what's wrong?"

"I dreamt of this place, the day after I met you. You and I were standing right here, face to face. You were older, taller and with lighter hair and greener eyes. You were wearing a soft, yellow sweater with black bees sewn into the fabric. I asked you to close your eyes, and you did. Close your eyes, Mabel." After a quick, childish glare, she obliged. Thomas touched his hand to the soft flesh of Mabel's cheek. She didn't move, didn't stir and allowed him to finish his story without the advantage of sight. "I kissed you," he could feel his heart begin to race. "I would kiss you now, but I'm too afraid."

Her bright blue eyes opened, her hand held his hand steady. "It's okay. You'd be my first, too. Trust me, I'm just as afraid as you are right now." She didn't smirk, she didn't laugh, but moved the edge of her rough fingers below the young boy's handsome face.

"You don't need to be afraid of me."

Mabel stepped away from him by a few inches. "Would you believe me if I told you that it wasn't me you saw in your dream?"

His forehead creased, "What do you mean? Who else could it possibly have been?"

"Let's just say…" she began, but found her tongue was instantly tied. There had to be some way of telling him who she truly was and that somehow, he had dreamt of his reincarnated self. Furthermore, that he had been with Marigold in his dream, not her. How could she possibly explain this? Even thinking it made her feel insane. "I come from two different places. Two different times. And I don't belong in either of them. Big surprise there, I mean… I've never belonged anywhere before. So, why should now be any different?" Her words made no sense to him, they rarely did, but the sadness in her eyes and the tears that were beginning to fall from them were honest and pure.

"How can you say that?" He pulled her in, almost against her will, for a tight embrace. "You belong with me." As Mabel settled, he placed his chin on her shoulder. "And one of these days, I'm going to be brave enough to prove it to you." He could feel that she was backing away again. It wasn't until she spoke that he let her go.

"Prove it to me now," she whispered, so close to his lips that he could taste her sweet breath, "and I promise to meet you halfway."

It was an awkward sensation at first touch, but the moment that Thomas adjusted his hand on the edge of Mabel's face, they grew comfortable with the kiss. Innocent, soft and incredibly gentle are only accurate descriptors for those fleeting ten seconds of joy that they shared in the schoolhouse that day.

Once the key was safely returned to Annabelle, they asked Mary Whitley for permission to go riding for a while. A storm was brewing overhead and while Mrs. Whitley seemed to trust Mabel's knowledge and treatment of her horses, their request was declined. Neither of the youngsters were ready to retire and head indoors- who would be so early on a Saturday afternoon?

"Come on. Let's explore those woods. I don't think we're going to be able to go there much longer," Thomas said in a hushed tone as they headed towards the wooded hillside. At first, Mabel thought that she heard gunfire through the trees and considered going back. He was right in his assumptions that the entire Santee was becoming a combat zone, after all. "Don't worry, that's just thunder you're hearing. The deeper we go into the woods, the trees will begin to act like umbrellas."

"I suppose that's a comforting thought!" She proceeded into a steep incline without any fear, while Thomas looked on with astonishment.

"You have to be the toughest girl I've ever met!"

Naturally, this compliment went to Mabel's head and threw her focus off just detrimentally enough for the root in her hand to snap, causing her to stumble down the hill. When she landed next to Thomas, she rolled over on her back and started to laugh. "Way to jinx me!" She reached out her hand, expecting him to help her to her feet, but instead, he sat right down beside her in the mud and brushed his dirt-covered hand across her hair.

"You don't mind getting down and dirty. I think that's why I love you." He watched closely, apologetically as her smile dropped. "Forgive me."

"You know, Thomas," Mabel began, refusing to move an inch while her clothes were soaking in even more mud by the minute, "I always thought that love was reserved for girls who wear makeup and pretty clothes and… have so many friends in their social circle that one or two of them is bound to fall for them at some point. I'm none of the above. But here I am!"

"Here you are," Thomas smiled nervously.

"I've never felt this way before," a smile, just as tentative as his, appeared on Mabel's lips. They shared a quick, timid laugh before she realized the smallest tear in the corner of his eye. She reached for it as she sat. Before consoling him with another soft kiss, Mabel whispered, "I love you, too."

 **Author's Note: Second chapter this week. What can I say? I had some free time and when opportunity knocks- write! I'm happy to hear you're enjoying Annabelle… and my not-so-inconspicuous musical theatre references. Lol. I hadn't considered mirroring Mabel and Fredrick's relationship for Thomas and Mabel… but that's an awesome idea! I'll keep that in mind as the story progresses! =-D More "Fantasticks"- inspired material; I was listening to "Soon it's Gonna Rain" earlier today and it loosely inspired this chapter- such a lovely musical! X**


	5. Duality

Tommy Martin was adrift on a sea of seemingly unsolvable long division problems when he heard a knock on his door. "It's open," he hollered, allowing his eyes to stray from his textbook and across the mess of dirty laundry and discarded sneakers on his bedroom floor. "So, you can either come in or beat it!"

Benny was normally displeased with this sort of jargon, but didn't appear to be bothered this time. The door cracked open and he beheld the delightfully uncommon sight of Tommy doing his homework. "Son?"

Tommy folded his arms across his chest. Usually, his father only started sentences with the word "Son" when he was very proud or very disappointed. Since Tommy was certain that he hadn't done anything worthy of pride for as far back as he could remember, he braced himself for whatever reprimand he had earned. "What did I do this time?"

As Benny navigated his way through the clutter, he refused to make any sort of eye contact with his son. At least, until he knelt and they were face to face. "I just got off the phone with Miss Zipp. Apparently, Miss Casey had her baby this morning," he said, lowly.

"And you're telling me this… why?" Tommy glanced back at his textbook and pretended to re-engage with it. Hearing anything about Marigold since their last encounter in the schoolhouse was difficult- even more so than it had been after her marriage. He'd sought closure during that meeting, but gained nothing of the sort. He was just as in love with her now as he always had been. "Boy or girl?" Tommy managed to ask.

"A little girl. Premature, but strong."

"Well…" his frustration with his father's "hovering" was beginning to show. "Extend my congrats, I guess."

"There's more," Benny looked at the edge of the textbook that Tommy was shuffling nervously with his fingertips. The fidget grew worse as he hunted for the right words to say. "Son, sometimes there are complications with pregnancies that put both the baby and the mother at risk. Miss Casey suffered one of those complications," he could see the color in Tommy's face drain and a sudden flash of fear enter his usually mocking blue eyes. When he grabbed hold of his hand, Benny found that his palm was sweaty and cold. "Marigold is gone. She passed away."

"That's a lie!" He pushed Benny's hand away with force. "You're lying to me, Father! You're lying!" Tears came next, washing a red, angry hue across the young man's face. "Please," he begged, still sitting, but preparing to escape from his now claustrophobic work space, "please tell me that this is nothing but a lie!"

"I'm so sorry." Benny shook his head.

Tommy covered his face, for just an instant. Then, he flipped his desk and all of its contents over onto the floor. Before falling to the ground in a heap, to cry, he swung the chair into the edge of his nightstand, causing splintered plywood to fall down around them like sharp pieces of jagged rain. His hands searched for something else to destroy, simply for the pleasure of seeing something other than his heart and soul shatter before his eyes. But Benny grabbed him and cut his anger short.

Feeling the balance of his weeping son fail caused Benny's eyes to sweat. He held Tommy close, closer than he had ever held him before. "I'm sorry," he would repeat, occasionally. The cries, so mournful and pained that Tommy released, escaladed and echoed through the house. Every now and then, there would be a lull when his energy failed; but Tommy continued to revisit his father's words. They echoed in his mind like his cries did in his messy room: "Marigold is gone. She passed away." And Tommy would weep again.

"I love her," he confessed upon remembering how to form words and thoughts. "I've loved her every day from the day we met. Everyone- even you, Father, treat it like infatuation. But I really, truly love her! With everything that I am!" He dove, this time, into his father's chest to tremble and sob as though he had been brutally injured.

"I know, Son, I know. We all could see it, even Marigold could. She loved you, too. Not in the same way, but she loved you, regardless. If she could see how pained you are right now-"

"She would help me," he surfaced for air. "She would talk to me and let me hold her. She would take my pain and claim it as her own. Because she is an angel. She… was an angel."

"She is," Benny looked down at his son's red face, "there are angels everywhere, Son. And there is one out there, right now, just for you. You will meet her one day, when the time is right. I know that you will never forget Marigold and that nobody will ever fill the void that she has left behind in your heart. I know that you don't believe me right now, but it will get easier. And you will be able to love again. Someday, soon."

"I have a feeling," Tommy wiped his eyes, but they began to well again almost immediately, "that she put her daughter before her today. Marigold would have preferred her daughter to live, even over herself… Do you know what the baby's name is, Father?"

"Mabel," he embraced Tommy and allowed him to cry against his heart once more, "her name is Mabel."

Thomas awoke, drenched in a cold sweat. He had been an outsider looking in during his dream. Still, he felt every heartbeat of Tommy's, every convulsion of a sob, as though he had been the one producing them. "Her name is Mabel," he thought aloud, "my Mabel?"

The hour was early- too early for anyone else to be awake. But the sensation of loss caused him to rise from his bed and creep quietly out of the house. Silently, he raced down the road. His boots felt strange against his bedclothes and the chilly breeze that moved through his sleeves made Thomas feel naked and exposed. But he refused to stop until he reached her home all the way on the other side of Waterford. "Mabel?" He whispered into each open window.

On the third try, he could hear someone shuffle behind the white curtains. A hand, small and pale in the moonlight pushed the fabric aside. This was the closest to Annabelle Casey that Thomas had ever been. Only her coloring and age made her different from Mabel… and practically identical to Marigold.

"You must be Thomas," her lips and upturned nose contorted into a comical sneer, "or the most ill-advised burglar this side of the Santee!"

"You're Miss Casey?" He backed up slightly, jumping when his hand touched a leafy shrub. "Annabelle Casey?"

"I thought you already knew that," she gave her wild, green eyes a tiny roll before whispering, "have you been drinking, young man?!"

"And Annabelle Casey is the only name you have?"

Annabelle sighed, "It is."

"And Mabel… she's your cousin, isn't she?"

A shadow, followed by a voice entered into Annabelle's room. "Yes, I am her cousin." Mabel moved towards the window and extended her hand. "You've been crying, Thomas," her face changed as she turned to Annabelle, "I'm sorry that he woke you. May I go out, please? Just to talk with him a while? We'll be quiet…"

"I'm your cousin, not your mother," was her snarky, semi-ironic response. "Stay close by and don't go near the woods until after sunrise." She gave the smallest yawn, followed by a stretch and Annabelle retired after closing her window shut.

"You can't do this," Mabel said as she stepped out the door and into his arms. "Did you see her face? You scared her, Thomas. She didn't want to show it, but you did…" she pressed the back of his icy hand to her lips. "Now, what's happened to make you so-"

"I had another dream," he held Mabel tighter with every word, "there was a man who looked so much like my father… and a boy who looked so much like myself. They were in a very strange room, filled with the most obscure objects I've ever seen! But it wasn't the space that affected me the most, it was the news that the father bore."

"What news?" She hushed him, inviting him to sit beside her on the porch steps.

With her hands enclosed safely in his, Thomas proceeded. "A death. The way that it destroyed me inside, I feared that it was your own. I watched as the boy fell to pieces over the loss of… Marigold." Mabel retreated the second the name left his lips. "With her death, there came a birth, Mabel. Yours." He couldn't see her face. No, she'd covered it too tightly with her hands. But he could hear behind them a sigh, drenched in sadness and frustration. "Mabel, I am so sorry! If I knew that it would hurt you, I never would have said-"

"No," Mabel murmured, at last, revealing not a single tear, "I'm glad that you did. Because it confirms that I truly have known you my whole life. I should have known the day that you kissed me in the schoolhouse. When you described who it was you saw in your dream. But I was being stupid, as usual! I convinced myself that it wasn't true and let myself fall in love. With the last person I want to be with, no less! I cannot possibly love you."

"What are you saying?" He tried to hold her hand again, but Mabel stood and sought out the railing at the edge of the porch.

"You're Tommy Martin," her tears flowed freely as she leaned against the wooden pole for support, "you took my Fa away from me! You broke his back and stole his eyes and scarred his face with fire! He suffered for three years and I was present for all of them! Every single day, I would watch him push the agony that you caused him aside- all for my benefit! He prayed for death, I know he did. But my selfish prayers to keep him alive countered them. You should have died in that fire!" She pushed him back with such force that he stumbled and crashed upon the wooden platform. "Get away from me!"

He wanted to be furious. Anger was always the first emotion that Thomas felt when he was struck down by his siblings in play. Blame it on teenage hormones. But he had known for quite some time now that Mabel could kill him with so much as a disapproving glance.

"I'm in love with you," he sat upright and brushed his brown, unruly locks from his eyes. "I'm in love with you, Mabel Casey."

"You didn't even bother to learn my real name," her glare sharpened as she nipped his question in the bud, "my name is Mabel Tavington. I have been and I always will be my father's daughter. And I hate you, Thomas Martin. I hate you and I hope that I never see you again."

Mabel's pride wasn't always greater than her humility- but it was this time around. In the days that followed, she realized that her heart had split in two like a tree struck by lightning in an open field. Not through pain- pain was far too simple to ignite such a change. Something in her genetic coding caused her to lash out. Like her father, her moods could shift from hot to cold in an instant. This thought was both comforting and isolating- in short, Mabel was becoming aware of her own duality.

She frequented the porch in the early mornings, studying her memory closely and trying to piece together an apology- or better yet, an explanation for Thomas. Annabelle would pass her on the way to the schoolhouse and learned after several days not to interfere. That is, of course, until the morning that she selected to confide in her "cousin".

"You asked me once," said Annabelle as she approached Mabel on the steps in front of their house, "if I ever spoke to a British soldier. Just outside of the schoolhouse, no less." Her green eyes smiled at the beautiful memory that she was about to unearth. "It's almost as if you knew what was going to happen before it did. He has the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Except-" as Annabelle sat, her happiness transitioned into wonder. "Perhaps you know more than I have given you credit for, Cousin."

"Oh, Annabelle," Mabel placed her head on her shoulder. It hurt knowing that she would have to disappoint her, yet again. "I know nothing. If I did, I would have foreseen Thomas. Why does love make our hearts so happy and then cause them to hurt so much?"

"Why does your heart hurt?" The two women clasped their hands, tightly. "What has Thomas done to you?"

"It is not what he has done to me so much as what I've done to him. I'll be lucky if he ever does so much as look at me again. I miss him so…" Mabel stopped herself, "and now I'm crying. Like a complete idiot." She let out a quick, tearful laugh. "Now, I feel like one of those girls that I make fun of!"

"Every morning," Annabelle coaxed, "I look for the soldier in the clearing beside the woods. I expect to see him there, waiting for me. When I find that he isn't there… my dear Cousin! I know your pain well. I can feel it now, almost as if it were mine to bear. It's funny, I don't even know his name!"

"You will," were the only words that Mabel could offer, even though William's name was at the tip of her tongue, "I know you will..."

 **A/N: And another. Sorry for the melodrama in this one. I'm having too much fun, if you can't tell. (Also, lokindclonelvr- are my evil author tendencies really that predictable? Okay, I guess they kind of are.. Lol.) Thanks for the reads and reviews- there's much, much more on the way! X**


	6. Strange Remedies

Before heading off, Annabelle asked Mabel to keep a close watch on her younger sisters. The sounds of war were growing closer with each passing day. During the night, everyone in the Casey residence would listen to far-off gunfire. Many times, it was nothing more than a single shot echoing in the night, but recently, they had grown in volume and frequency. This conversation with Annabelle meant two things to Mabel: one, her father was close by and two, it was becoming increasingly dangerous to pay Thomas Martin a visit at any time- night or day.

She would have gone inside, started her chores and looked after Scarlett and Delilah like she had been instructed to do. Going against Annabelle's orders was not her way- she loved her "cousin" with all her heart. If there was anyone in this lonely, frightening world that she could confide in, it was Annabelle. But the appearance and fragrance of smoke from a distant farm caused her to stray that morning.

The Martins owned more land and therefore, lived in a more isolated area than the Caseys or Whitleys. Mabel had the ability to tell that there were numerous fires on their property the second she reached the river. What started off as a jog turned into a frantic sprint through their cornfield. The extent of the damage came into view and she screamed his name with whatever remaining breath she had. Her strides and cries lessened when she saw his three youngest siblings huddled outside of their burning home.

"What happened?!" Mabel called from across the field. "Where is your father? The rest of your family? Where is-" her loudly beating heart grew into a hollow echo in her ears. Pain, so visceral and unrelenting prevailed as his colorless face and white shirt, stained heavily with blood, materialized before her.

"Thomas!" Mabel raced to hold the only boy she'd ever loved in her arms. His flesh was barely cool to the touch and the blood that was pouring from the open wound in his chest felt warm as it moved into the fibers of her clothes. Still, there was no denying that he was gone.

"The last words that I said to you were a lie," she whispered, holding him closer and warming the side of his face with her own, "to say that I hate you was the worst lie I ever told." Her attention turned to the aching, bewildered faces of his younger sisters and brother. "Who did this?!" She cried. "Who would do something so cruel to your family? Who would be so heartless to cut short the life of such a dear, sweet boy?"

The eldest daughter was the only one to speak. She had seen Mabel before with her brother, but only briefly. "The Redcoats came to take my brother away and Thomas tried to stop them. That's all I know," the tearful girl explained. "Father chased after them and asked us to stay here. Will you stay with us and keep us safe?"

Mabel gave her no answer. Instead, she returned to Thomas. "I lied," she repeated, caressing the soft, dark hairline that contrasted his white forehead. "Everyone I love always leaves me. But you only left because I sent you away. You were loyal and funny and perfect," tears arrived to suffocate the sound of her voice, "and I told you that I hated you and sent you away!" Each hand that framed the edges of the beautiful boy's face, began to gradually form into a fist. But Mabel didn't rise, not yet. Not without declaring her undying love with a final kiss to his brow.

"I cannot stay here," she started to say, but as Mabel took in the faces of his siblings, she could see features that belonged to Thomas- features that she adored, in each and every of them. Not only could she stay there to look after his younger sisters and brother- she should. But she didn't want to, not like this, so Mabel removed her black, tailored riding coat- the one that she would only be parted with if it needed a new button, hem, or to be washed and dried. Before returning Thomas to the dusty ground, she wrapped it around his chest and back, covering every inch of blood.

They sat in a circle, closer to the house, in a strange, sad and silent quartet. In the silence, Mabel's mind raced from one thought to another. She restricted her field of vision, focusing on the meticulously sewn rows of corn. This trick kept her eyes from wandering back to Thomas although occasionally, she would catch sight of him in her periphery. Each time, she would feel her fists begin to clench and she would considering vowing an act of vengeance to remedy the pain that his siblings were experiencing. But the words never found their way to her lips and were lost forever by the time their father and eldest brother emerged from the woods. Mabel was certain that she had nothing to say to them and so, only slightly satisfied that she was able to remain with the children and give them whatever comfort she could, Mabel disappeared without so much as a farewell.

She cried a while in the forest, walking aimlessly until she found that her wandering feet were leading her straight to the door of the schoolhouse. The apple tree provided her with nourishment and a safe haven until her presence pulled Annabelle from her students. The minute that she saw the look that Mabel wore, she dismissed her students early and asked that she join her inside.

"You're all I have in this world," Mabel pulled a chair alongside where Annabelle sat and all but collapsed onto her shoulder, "and all that I have ever done is lie to you. I wanted to spend time with my parents so badly, but at what expense? I can't help thinking that if I hadn't have been so cruel to Thomas, maybe fate would have spared him in the end."

"What are you trying to say to me, Cousin? What happened to Thomas? What happened to you!?"

Mabel quietly cursed herself for throwing this weight- this confusion on Annabelle. "I had my words all picked out, in order. I did that while I was walking over here. And now…"

Annabelle leaned in, with all of the patience and empathy that Mabel was certain her mother would have had, "Try telling me chronologically. Would you like to start with today and go backwards? Or with the day that you arrived in Waterford? Or perhaps even long before that?"

"This schoolhouse will stand for more than two hundred years." Whether or not these words were comforting, Mabel was unsure. But this was the only explanation that she could find. "It will become a tourist attraction during the 21st century… and you're going to think that I am completely mad if I continue."

"You know the future," said Annabelle knowingly, "like the Oracle in Oedipus. There is a fine line between madness and poetry, Mabel, but thin as may be, the line still stands. You are not mad. Tell me more about this century."

"You aren't going to question how I know about it?" When Mabel saw Annabelle shake her head, she felt as though her tears were beginning to dry. The lump in her throat was growing smaller and smaller. "Would you believe me if I told you that I have been there?"

"By telling me all of this you are trying to remedy a lie, correct?"

"Correct."

She smiled and pulled Mabel closer. "Then I will believe."

"I don't know everything, only what my father told me and what I witnessed firsthand. But the schoolhouse will always be owned by a Casey. Or, almost always. My mother-" she glanced at Annabelle's face, momentarily, for confirmation, "will own the schoolhouse until the year of my birth. 2018. Six years later, Tommy Martin," she could feel a knot forming at the base of her throat at the mention of his name, but proceeded, somehow, " Tommy… Martin… will destroy it by burning it to the ground and with it, my sweet father, who entered the burning building to save his life, will never be the same. I resented Tommy until I loved him… in this year, now." She took a second glance, just to make sure that Annabelle' hadn't flinched or scowled or lost interest in any way- she hadn't. "The soldier that you met behind this building. I have his eyes, don't I?"

"Yes," said she, even before looking. "I've wondered about that every day." Annabelle brushed Mabel's hair aside and took in her round, childlike face- beginning with her eyes. "They are beautiful. Deep. Full of secrets. Just like his. And everything else about you, Mabel. Every time I look at you, logic stands in the way. I try to make connections with you and my cousin who lives upstate. Many of the dots connect, yes, but many of them fall through the page and into obscurity. Even now, my mind is trying to deny it. But everything about you, this primal force confirms that you are mine. And that you are his." As she held Mabel's head still, Annabelle could see an incoming storm of tears and pain in those familiar eyes. "I have so many questions for you. But first, please, give me some of your pain to carry. You needn't suffer alone anymore, Sweetheart. If you need to cry, cry." She positioned the girl, just three years younger than herself, to cry like a child in her lap. Annabelle didn't move once, not even to change positions for her own comfort but merely stroked Mabel's hair and caught her tears as best she could. She found herself captivated by the beauty of the tearful girl's red profile- her small, perfectly sculpted nose, round cheeks and long, damp eyelashes.

"Father used to tell me how wonderful you were. In this century and in our own," Mabel whispered when she could speak again, grasping tightly onto Annabelle's knee. "Even Tommy was in love with you. When Thomas told me that he dreamt of you, it hurt. Hearing about you always hurt. I think it's because you were my first loss."

"I don't understand, Mabel," Annabelle mentioned, though it pained her to do so. "It's not that don't believe you, but…"

"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"Of course I do!" The joyful note that she struck upon saying this gave Mabel a sense of comfort. "I was a hummingbird once, you know!"

"I believe that you were. And you will be," Mabel smiled to herself, "in a future life, a wife of a soldier who traveled across time to find you… and I will be your daughter."

She was still confused; the words that she was hearing implied her own death, but that was not the first question that came to selfless little Annabelle's mind. "How long have you been all alone, Sweetheart? Too long, I suppose?"

"I never got to know you. You only lived long enough to bring me into the world. Then, when I was nine, Fa joined you. I wasn't alone, my godparents love me and I love them very much. But I was never whole without you and I think that's why I'm here…"

The two girls grew quiet, just long enough to digest what had been spoken over such a short period of time. When Mabel's strength returned, she headed for the door, certain that she had caused more harm than good by laying bare the contents of her mind. But the lilywhite hand of Annabelle Casey found its way to her shoulder and urged her to pause.

"Will you tell me where I can find flowers for the Martin Family?" Mabel asked as turned, her eyes welling with tears that still needed to be shed.

"Of course I will, Mabel. We can go together." They made to depart, but Annabelle rarely ran out of words to say. As she waited for the six most important words of her life to surface, she placed a gentle kiss on Mabel's forehead. "I will be your mother now."

The air that night made for pleasant dreams. A gentle sheet of rain combined with the breeze that blew the storm inland from the sea created a melodious sound much like waves upon the shore. This was the first night that William slept soundly in days. It was sadistic, almost, how he was able to indulge in slumber after bringing such destruction to the Martin Family. But they were not on his mind at the end of the day. No, he allowed his thoughts to drift to calmer waters and think of the fair poetess whose name he could only guess.

In his dream, they were side by side on the cool surface of a seaside boulder. Her breaths slipped inside of her pink lips and escaped in a gentle sound that was barely muted by the crashing waves. He was thankful to be close enough to hear her breathing and moved closer still as she stirred. Chilled, she reached for him, begging to be covered. But William's hand ventured below her throat and unfastened the buttons of her dark, collared dress until her breasts, two small round inclines on the pale terrain of her chest were made susceptible to the icy breeze. He smiled to see that their hardened centers were the same shade of pink as her lips.

"You do know that you are much too young for me," William purred, circumnavigating the newfound territory with his handsome mouth.

"You should have considered that before marrying me!" The beautiful young lady laughed bashfully. Her youthful mannerisms caused guilt to enter William's heart. But that sensation was short-lived and quickly turned into something darker.

"Marriage?" His fondling continued, "Someone as sweet and as virginal as yourself shouldn't be concerned with such things! You should devote several years at least to promiscuity. Preferably with me as your-" the outline of a deep wound appeared below the leftmost declivity of her collarbone. He watched as it reddened and expanded before erupting with dark blood, almost black against the whiteness of her flesh. As he moved his hand to keep her blood from spilling out, William saw the golden ring on his finger glisten before it was swallowed by the crimson outpour.

The storm had transitioned from lovely to violent when William awoke in his sweat-drenched cot. His comrades surely would have heard him cry if it wasn't for the noise of the rain. As the flashes of lightening grew more and more constant, the thunder swallowed the words that he drearily shared with the surrounding darkness.

"I am a monster. One who can kill an angel with a single touch."

 **Disclaimer: Yup, things are getting interesting. Hopefully. I'm sorry if Mabel's reactions to everything are all over the place. As I write her, I'm trying to remember what it was like to be 16 and slap-happy one minute and a weeping mess the next. That on top of the emotional turmoil makes this... fun (?) to write! Thanks for putting up with me. As always. X**


	7. I'll Gladly Settle for Your Ghost

Everything changed the day that Harold Whitley returned home from the war. Seeing his mother shift from her expected demeanor of joyful and welcoming to frightened and grim as Mabel arrived with the Casey Girls, was unsettling to say the least. Annabelle's interests also shifted; from looking after the younger girls to remaining at Harold's side until his injuries inevitably claimed him. But it was not her lack of attention that caused Mabel to leave that day. Instead, it was reliving her father's final days in the form of the young man's suffering.

Mary's whispers as she visited each room that contained the soldiers who arrived with her son, reminded Mabel of how Jake and Giselle would discuss her father's condition when they thought she wasn't listening. The expression of poorly concealed sadness in the old woman's eyes as she spoke to Annabelle haunted Mabel. Yet, there was nothing quite so painful as the hope that Annabelle seemed to cling to in Harold's final hours. It was that same naivety that Mabel possessed day after day until she returned from school to find that her beloved father, motionless and cold in his quiet room.

At first, she left the Whitley's home on an errand. Mary had given her the means to purchase supplies for the night and asked that she speak with Reverend Chelsea in Waterford so that he might visit the injured soldiers before their souls departed. She rode swiftly towards town as had been discussed on a chestnut mare that Thomas had favored during those afternoon rides that seemed so long since passed. But Mabel, as ever, strayed from her intended path and found herself approaching the scorched ruin of the farmhouse that Thomas had grown up in.

A humble grave was all that had been left behind in his remembrance. She'd visited Thomas only once before with Annabelle by her side. Unlike his mother, he had neither a headstone nor an epitaph. Just a small wooden cross that his father had quickly made in what was left of his workshop before abandoning the property for good. She sat on the ground in front of Thomas, shuffling the leather pouch full of coinage that was to be used to purchase bandages and medicinal herbs that wouldn't do any good in the grand scheme of things.

"You're growing up much too fast," a voice, hushed and light as a feather traveled past her on the breeze. Before Mabel could inquire, the sentence was repeated with more weight. She recognized it immediately as the voice of a young man fighting to speak lower and sound grown up. Although her face flushed in discomfort, the faintest smile graced her lips. Her godmother had a "ghost" who she would speak to when Mabel was busy visiting her father's grave. Her heart grew warm to know that Thomas had found her, just like Henry had for Giselle.

"Where are you?" She searched the space, but found nothing. At least until she felt his presence in the form of a windy embrace. "I can feel you." Without a second to spare, the confession that she made to him only after he was gone, spilled from her lips, "Thomas, I never hated you. Never! I just get so angry sometimes and become someone I don't like." Mabel could feel the shape of his hand forming upon the platform of her one open palm. "Who did this to you?" She was disappointed when he gave no answer. "I must know if I am going to avenge you!"

"Spirits don't applaud vengeance. Peace is our gospel and I am at peace when I am with you."

"How can you possibly be at peace with someone who said such terrible things? And content with knowing that whoever murdered you in cold blood is still out there? The Thomas I know-" she could feel the breeze wash over her, in an attempt to bring comfort and lessen her distress. "You're holding me. Aren't you?"

"You gained a mother in Annabelle. Now, you have a ghost of your very own. And your father… do you still blame me for what happened to him?"

Mabel could feel her strength failing and knew she was on the verge of tears. "I was foolish to do so. Seeing as he is here. Alive and… somewhere. Perhaps even in those woods." She looked up, seeing the dark, twig-like foundation of what was once a barn.

Mabel understood that her father was a tyrant during this time- she even knew of his affinity for burning buildings, but she hadn't made the connection that his was the hand that opened fire on young Thomas Martin. The justification for saving Tommy from the schoolhouse was still beyond her. Furthermore, Thomas hadn't seen his killer. Nor did he have any way of identifying him as Colonel Tavington. This cruel irony only worsened as Thomas continued his explanation of this "haunting" to Mabel.

"You are on the verge of something, my beautiful Mabel. A change in your life. I cannot see everything that lies before you with clarity, but I know that you are about to embark on a thrilling yet dangerous journey."

Her smile widened. "And you're coming with me!?"

"Spirits walk the earth in very brief intervals," the voice of Thomas said darkly, "but I will never be far off. I will never stop watching you and protecting you." The changing winds rustled the overgrowth along the fence and beside his mother's grave. His words were comforting and surprisingly wise. Mabel's heart grew heavy. The Thomas from her memory was humorous and playful. Could he have lost those traits alongside any worldly desire for vengeance? As if on cue, the spirit's voice lightened, "You're sitting in the mud again. What will Reverend Chelsea say when he sees you?"

She dried her eyes and shot a quick smile to the empty space over her shoulder. "That's right, Reverend Chelsea. I don't know why I thought this errand would become less grim if I visited you…"

"You find me grim?" His voice rose to the same darling pitch that Mabel had been missing all along.

"A little bit. You are a ghost, after all. Grimness is practically a prerequisite... could you tell me more about this journey?"

He chuckled, sending a sharp draft of air across Mabel's shoulder. She couldn't decide if it was thrilling or terrifying.

"I'm afraid I'm not as informed as you believe me to be. You will get muddy, though."

The breeze pulled her closer, suspending her above the ground so that if she tried to fall backwards, she wouldn't be able to. "The muddier I get, the more likely you will be to visit me?" Mabel joked.

"I can almost guarantee it!" He produced another "laugh", this time it was more welcome. "It's funny how the loveliest girl I ever had the good fortune to know becomes even lovelier when she's covered in mud!" They both grew silent, sad. "First loves never die, Mabel," he tried to console her, but all that he received in return was silence, "I hope this is enough until we meet again."

"April Smith," she mumbled, tracing a spiral into the damp earth with her fingernail.

"Who?"

"Oh, my godmother, Giselle. She's a slightly insensitive woman. Fa had all of my mother's things packed away in the basement and after he passed, she broke into several of the boxes and exhumed her record player and played her April Smith album to death. It was good music, very catchy but the one really slow track said something along the lines of, 'if I cannot have the real thing, I'll gladly settle for your ghost', or something like that."

"It will all make sense in the end, Mabel. Would you believe me if I told you that you are here for a reason?"

She hesitated before giving a half-hearted nod. "If you had stayed with me, I eventually would have told you… this is all the result of a riding accident. Somedays, I think it's a bizarre dream. But if that is all that it is, why does this world seem so real?"

"You're here to find something that you lost."

"My parents," Mabel confirmed. "Correct?"

"I don't know. But if they come to your mind first, I have cause to say… yes, your parents."

Mabel collected her thoughts and tried to form a response, but when she finally achieved clarity, the breeze had departed and she was alone once more. "Wait!" She cried into the emptiness, "I still have so many questions for you, Thomas!" Silence. "When will I see you again?" The seconds turned to minutes- she must have waited for ten by the time that she realized he wasn't coming back. At least not yet. So, Mabel proceeded to Waterford as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The clouds overhead that had arrived with Thomas broke apart in the sky and the light from the sun filled in the empty spaces. This was the way of hauntings, as Mabel understood them. Over time, she discovered patterns, disturbances in the forecast, every time she and Giselle visited the cemetery. Clouds would often times mask the sun and although Mabel couldn't hear him, the occasional whispers of his name that escaped her godmother's lips assisted her in realizing that those visits weren't only for Mabel's benefit.

It is interesting to note that Mabel experienced a second haunting on this particular day. She didn't see it coming at first because the sun was shining just as clearly as ever, but the second that she noticed the hummingbird on her shoulder, Mabel knew that she had seen this guide before. The bright, iridescent patterning on the tiny bird's chest and wings combined with its conversational mannerisms had been locked inside of her memory for many years. In short, she was riding alongside Marigold Tavington.

Before darting off into the woods, the hummingbird bounced to and fro like a brilliant green pendulum and she showed little satisfaction until Mabel pursued her. The chase was on. What started off as playful, turned frustrating. The hummingbird taunted and teased her, much to Mabel's surprise, and the young girl's aggression fueled the "game" between them. Her horse's canter turned into a full sprint as she flew across the rugged terrain, urging her mount to leap over any obstructions that they found in their path. Deeper and deeper into the woods they rode, until Mabel was far passed anywhere she and Thomas had explored.

Despite her best efforts, the bird remained the victor. Even after she disappeared without a trace, Mabel continued on. When the horse showed signs of exhaustion, her verbal demands lessened, but the whips and kicks continued until finally, the little chestnut mare threw her into a shallow stream and raced off, riderless.

"Stupid horse!" Mabel spat, stomping her foot loudly against the smooth rocks. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Her tantrum was cut short when she slipped and fell back into the exact spot that the horse had tossed her. "Man, I'm a jerk," she mused after cradling her head for a moment or two. Her eyes, still ablaze with icy blue frustration, scanned the thick and leafy horizon. "And now I'm lost in the woods… awesome..."

 **A/N: The brief April Smith lyric is a real thing and I don't own it. If you can't tell, music plays a huge role in my " writing process" and the song that the lyric is from "Beloved" fit this chapter like a glove. The album its from, "Songs for a Sinking Ship" is probably my most recommended LP because at the end of the day… I'm just a Marigold. Highly recommended.**


	8. Shadows and Reflections

**A/N: If this week's chapter is weird, please note that I am combatting a monstrous cold, was raised by hippies and am used to herbal remedies for almost everything and am therefore a total lightweight… so, my system plus Sudafed equals "wheee!"**

William crouched on a large, flat rock just outside of camp and covered his face with his hands. His throat was sore and raw from screaming at his subordinates. The billowing smoke from the Whitley Farm irritated everyone's eyes and William's just enough to conceal the tears that he shed as they rode away. Now, he was free to submit to the pain if he so desired. He fought through the words, those angry demands that he had given his dragoons. Particularly the promises to slash to ribbons the lives and careers of any who gave full account of the executions that he had ordered earlier that day to Lord Cornwallis.

Although countless innocents would die before his role in the war was over, the Casey and Abbott children were the first youths to perish by his order. He had engaged Annabelle that day, threatened her with a similar fate and she didn't back down. Even after the shots rang out from the corral, that fair and fearless girl of nineteen remained unbroken by the menacing glare of Colonel William Tavington.

He should have spared them. Had he been in his right mind, William would have suspended his order. But that girl, that silly girl who so formally and conversationally introduced herself as "Annabelle Casey" and pleaded to reason with the monster who masqueraded as William- she was his greatest threat.

As long as she continued to taunt his mind with the verses that rolled over her pink tongue and out those petulant lips, as long her slender, virginal form skipped innocently through his dreams- his lust for her would continue. Like a cat pursuing a butterfly, he was unsure if he wanted to possess her or rip her to shreds. At this point, William simply believed that he wanted to do both. The dreams would continue, surely, and his focus on anything progressive or important would continue to be tragically thwarted.

He allowed the images in his mind to transition to the indulgent picture of her bare shoulders and long, white neck. His strong hands tensed in one moment as he imagined snapping it in two like an aspen twig- in the next, however, William contemplated on the reverberation in her throat and could almost hear her cheerful humming. He placed a fiery kiss on the nape of her neck as it appeared in his mind.

Dusk had fallen and with it, a sparse population of fireflies. He removed a small sketchbook from his breast pocket and started to trace the young woman's shoulder and braid, but the fireflies had other plans and inspired a sketch of an empty jar that he would soon fill with imaginary light.

"Seven tiny stars," he thought aloud and his somber face birthed his signature sideways smile. "Silly girl. Silly, wonderful, beautiful girl…" William's smile fell as he remembered the horrific crime that he had committed by destroying her family. "We shall not meet again. Or your purity and innocence will surely tarnish in the darkest corners of my mind." He finished the unimpressive sketch and was ready to rip the page from its binding and crumple it into oblivion when a terrible commotion arose from the encampment. William slammed the book shut.

"There is a rebel town nearby, you ignoramus swines!" He hissed to the cluster of half-dressed soldiers. The source of the noise was difficult to place at first, but the nearer he drew, William was able to diagnose whatever strangeness had occurred. Several of the soldier's horses had spooked and uprooted the young tree that they were tied to. "Whose handiwork is this, I wonder?!" William sneered as he turned towards his men, broken branch in hand. "How ironic it is that you questioned my authority earlier! Half of you can't tie proper knots and the other half choose to tie your mounts to the forest's most callow tree! Retrieve your horses. If you are shot at in the woods, you are on your own, Gentlemen." His eyes moved down the row of horses whose bonds remained unbroken and he cursed under his breath upon discovering that his was among the escaped.

Silence was no longer an option and yet, the herding progressed with as much order as William could request from his men. His own pursuit, the finest horse he'd ever rode and had named "Bellamy" out of sheer formality, was finally collected and all others were left to search the woods alone. He would have returned to camp. In fact, he was about to when the instigator caught his eye. Less than a hundred feet away, an unbranded chestnut mare had engaged in a hostile confrontation with one of his men's horses. William prepared to fire. It would have ended all for the poor creature had a lanky brown-haired girl not emerged from the woods and grabbed hold of the reins.

The beast was angry, grunting and foaming at the mouth, but the girl didn't budge. Her words were surprisingly harsh at first, but that changed after a matter of minutes. She didn't break focus once, not until her coaxing and- to William's surprise, humming of a tune he could have sworn he'd heard before but couldn't place, worked its peculiar magic and the horse permitted her to ride once more.

She seemed lost, indeed. Her unusual, masculine attire was covered with mud and bits of branches clung to her otherwise meticulously styled hair. The first expression to move across her face when she caught William's glance was a startle- then, she looked relieved, as though he would be the one to give her directions into town. The nearer they drew to one another however, the realization became clear from both sides.

"Fa?!" She silenced herself immediately, but a rogue tear still managed to slip out from the corner of her eye.

His gaze wasn't quite so tender. But that was only because he wouldn't allow it to be. Yes, she reminded him of Annabelle. In nearly every way, save for her coloring. "What is your name?"

"Mabel," she wiped her freckled nose against her sleeve.

"Mabel," William repeated, moving even closer. "You strike me as an equestrian. Am I correct?" As she nodded, he took a better look at her eyes. A relatively vain man, William was more than familiar with his own reflection and the shaping and blueness of the strange young woman's eyes haunted him. The girl scowled, probably out of impatience, but he couldn't tell. Everything about this expression was familiar, too, but William tried his best to remain stern. "And an incompetent one at that! I should be very angry with you, Mabel. But the truth is," his thin lips formed into a menacing grin, "you're clearly a better rider than all of my men combined. What are you glaring at me for? Do you disagree with something that I just told you?" He knew that look- fearless and beautiful. She was about to retort, but William spoke again. "You're a Casey, I assume?"

"No," her look of defiance remained unaltered. "I am not a Casey," he seemed to disengage and this did not sit well with Mabel. "I am a Tavington. And I am anything but incompetent."

His face reddened as the logical part of his mind convinced him that this was mockery. William readied his musket and aimed it at her. Mabel showed no fear.

"You're going to shoot me?" Her glaring continued- worsened, in fact. "I'd love to see you try!" She would only be smug for a second longer. The weapon released a noisy "crack" as William opened fire. The last thing that Mabel saw before the pain stole her focus away was the subtle look of regret on her father's face.

…

Grief stole much of Annabelle's rest that night. Dreams allowed her to escape for a while but every time she awoke, she would remember that her family had been taken from her and the process of begging her body to relax would start all over again. She thought of Mabel and prayed briefly for her safety with each wave of consciousness. It would be imprudent to search for her at this hour, but that is not to say that Annabelle hadn't considered abandoning rest and making the trek to Waterford.

"Reverend Chelsea gave her shelter, I'm sure. He's compassionate that way," she would ensure herself, "just rest a while longer, until daybreak when the roads become safe for travel once more."

It was painfully difficult, but she managed to find sleep one last time before the sky filled with light.

Annabelle dreamt that she was in a cramped room, lined with shiny monochrome appliances, the likes of which filled her heart with terror. She would have assessed it as a torture chamber had it not been for the hanging cookware that surrounded her. As Annabelle explored the area, she spotted two blonde girls chattering over the dishwashing basin. The tallest of the two shuffled her feet and moved sideways, just enough for her to catch a glimpse of her profile. Her face, masked with carefully applied makeup, combined with her head of thick, shiny curls reminded Annabelle of a portrait she had once seen on market in Charlestown.

"Now, why would an elite woman like that be washing dishes, I wonder?" She pondered, turning her attention to the second girl who was just as much of a peculiarity.

"That's the worst idea I've ever heard, Mare!" The "elite" girl exclaimed, her golden ringlets bouncing chaotically as she shook her head. "You won't last two minutes outside of Waterford!"

Annabelle moved in. Mare swayed from side to side, dancing to an imaginary beat. Her billowy, flowered skirt rested mid-thigh, giving just a suggestion of pale skin while the remainder of her legs were covered by dark blue socks. Her shoes, shiny and red, tapped against the concrete floor.

"It's still a ways off Zippy," the scantily clad Mare explained, "besides, Portland is supposed to be just as weird as Waterford. If not weirder! And you can come with me, if you want…"

Something in her voice intrigued Annabelle. She studied her, silently requesting that she turn and grant her a better look. Then, as if by fate, the clear plastic cup that Mare had pulled from the soapy water fell out of her hands and onto the ground.

"Spaz," Zippy teased under her breath.

With an awkward skip, the spastic young lady moved into view. Despite the pair of horn-rimmed glasses that were held in place by her small, unusually shaped nose and the bright red color that she wore on her lips, Annabelle recognized Mare's face as her own. She wasn't so much as halfway to the fallen cup when another face that Annabelle was certain she had seen before popped in from the darkened hallway. A small boy, six or seven years of age, swept the item from the floor. He appeared at first to be ready to run off with it, but something within him shifted from playful to adoring as Mare approached him.

"Auntie Tess counts everything. Since the last dishwasher stole spoons." The small boy said, matter-of-factly.

"So…" Mare crouched to his height and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, "The dishwasher ran away with the spoon?" This generated little response. "You know… like the nursery rhyme. Only it's the dish-"

"I outgrew those things years ago!" He declared proudly, trying to sound as grown up as possible. "Nice try, though." After several seconds of scanning Mare from head to toe, he passed her the cup. "Your glasses are really big."

"That's… an astute observation, young man. What's your name, again?"

"Your face is pretty," his ears turned bright red, everyone in the room assumed this was his way of blushing "I'm Tommy Martin." He turned to leave, but stopped before Mare had the chance to return to work. "What's your name?"

"Marigold Casey," she extended her hand and let Tommy shake it. He seemed to enjoy this quite a bit. "It's nice to meet you, Tommy."

"Your face is pretty, Miss Casey" he repeated with more confidence before dashing off without a trace, "you shouldn't cover it up."


	9. Dear Old Dad

**A/N: Many thanks for yesterday's reviews and for the "get well"'s. This chapter, yet again, is the product of being stuck in bed with even stronger medicine. So… it is probably quite loopy as well. Lol. X.**

Mabel's tolerance for pain was unlike anything William had ever seen, even on the battlefield. He watched in amazement from across the tent as she removed the round, metal interloper from her shoulder and cut short the flow of blood with all her strength. Her fingers shook momentarily on top of the wound, but steadied out on their own before William could even offer to help.

"You're a really poor shot, Fa." Mabel shut her eyes and balanced the back of her head against a wobbly pole. "It would have been easier to just kill me."

"The night is young, Miss… Tavington." He bore his teeth slightly and continued to marvel at his strange new acquaintance.

She hadn't halted his infatuation with Annabelle, but certainly had complicated it. Desire was not far off, especially having a beautiful young woman in his tent with her shoulder vulnerable and bare. But every time his mind wandered down that path, Mabel's differences from Annabelle became clear. For one, she was hardly delicate or ethereal but muscular and intense with sun kissed skin and blue eyes full of fire. In his mind, she was more boy than girl and this fact managed to mute her undeniable beauty.

On top of all this, there was something else about her that William couldn't define. Nor did he want to. It was madness, after all! That this stranger, this unusual little pebble in his shoe, would somehow belong to Annabelle… and himself. He pushed this possibility far, far back in his mind- even further than his deviant attraction to her.

"I'm curious," William leaned in and nearly lost his train of thought when Mabel opened her eyes to look at him and welcome his question, "since I am providing you with aid, against my better judgement… where do your loyalties lie?"

"I'm a one-woman country. Self-governed. Thank you very much." She gave him a wink and leaned back into comfort. Despite her speedy recovery, it was clear that she was bitter about her wounded shoulder.

"And you're a Tavington. Which, in case you are unaware, is a very uncommon surname."

"Well, Fa, I am a very uncommon gal," Mabel said, simply. "Do you have any more questions for me?"

William failed to withhold a smile. Thankfully, Mabel wasn't paying attention. "When you address me, Miss Tavington, you will address me as Colonel, is that clear? As for questions, yes, I do. Do you realize how much danger you are in right now? A colonial girl with a smartass disposition in the middle of the woods with a dozen sex deprived buffoons with muskets-"

"-thank goodness they're buffoons!" She interrupted, gleefully.

"You must be a Casey," his voice lowered, "you simply must be..."

"And why is that, Colonel?" Mabel challenged him.

"Because you always say exactly what's on your mind."

Her smile remained as she watched him, waiting for any expression of friendliness to surface on his face. He was an astonishingly solemn individual, even more so than the grief-stricken father from her memories.

"Where are you from?" William continued. "I'd like to see you properly returned to your home. I'd also like to cover your expenses at the nearest chemist. It's the least I can do and women run a higher risk for infection, after all." He could tell that she didn't take well to this observation, "I intend no harm to your village, Mabel, wherever it may be…"

"Okay- one, I'm not from anywhere, really. Two, my immune system is so faultless and robust that I am practically a medical mystery. The fact that I'm a woman is irrelevant! As for you not meaning any harm," Mabel gestured to her injury, "owie," she rolled her eyes.

"You're making it increasingly difficult for me to decide what I'm going to do with you," he didn't want this sentence to come across as wicked, but it did. As ever, Mabel didn't seem afraid. "You are a vagrant, an equestrian, apparently not a rebel and lastly, you are a Tavington. I shouldn't feel responsible for you, Mabel, but I do." He looked to the side, appearing as if he was searching through his memory for some lost content. "If you have no home to go to, you will ride with us tomorrow and inquire for employment at each fort. I will try to negotiate something in the stables. For some reason, I have a feeling that housekeeping would bore you to tears. You will be safe there and will have access to the care that you need."

Mabel's mind began to race. She wanted to return to Annabelle, but her meeting with Thomas had informed her that something was waiting for her out there, far from the comforts of home. Employment with the British, however, was a far cry from what she had imagined.

"That being said," William's tone grew stern, "if you do or say anything to inspire me or my men to question your loyalty, the musket will come out again and I never have to fire a third round, if you catch my drift." He offered to shake her hand, but Mabel didn't allow it. "The tent is yours for the night. I need to relieve our bloody idiot of a guard. You will find a rifle and some ammunition under the cot. Please tell me you know how to shoot."

"I never have to fire a second round," she brooded.

"Very well. Goodnight, Miss Tavington, I will collect you at dawn," his voice was monotone, uninterested as he stepped outside.

Once she was alone, Mabel finally permitted herself to cry- not only for the intense pain in her shoulder, but out of confusion. She had found her father. Even now, despite the injury that he had inflicted upon her, she would follow him to the ends of the earth. But if he had truly recognized her, he would have accepted who she was instead of lodging a cold bullet in her, correct? What she didn't know was that William remained outside of her tent just long enough to hear her muffled cries and as any parent would, he instinctively- without questioning why or how, felt her pain as if it were his own.

…

Riding with the dragoons was nothing short of ecstasy. They didn't seem to welcome her presence, Bordon especially, but William's open testaments about their unintelligence and lack of integrity kept them from getting under her skin. Her father was rough with his men, unkind. Although he showed her little affection, his treatment of Mabel seemed to equate her to something very special, indeed. He never criticized her, put her on the spot or made her feel marginalized. For the most part…

"Your form is good. Very good." He would say, whenever Mabel moved in beside him, stealing Bordon's spot away. "Now go bring up the rear like a good girl."

By the time mid-day rolled around, William had all but accepted that the stubborn young lady would do nothing of the sort. This angered him, but only a little bit. After all, it was a bigger blow to his second-in-command than to the Colonel himself.

They were giving their horses a rest by the stream when Mabel approached William. She had a feeling that he wouldn't welcome the intrusion and treaded as softly as possible. He was seated between two river-dwelling trees, admiring a small golden flower- one of the last remaining flora of summer.

"Colonel?" She asked, coaxing her horse to trail along behind her. He turned away at first, pretending that she wasn't there at all. "May I have a moment of your time, please?"

"This is the only time that I've had to myself all day," he groaned, cradling the flower's head in his gloved hand. Mabel was about to give up when he spoke again. "Did you know that the calendula is native to Europe and England? That means at some point, it journeyed across the sea and took up residence here in the colonies. It struggled at first, I'm sure. It had to fight, adapt and-"

"Even learn how to go by a new name," Mabel added, taking a better look at the specimen.

"What do you mean?" he sifted some of the damp soil between his fingertips before returning to the petals.

"It is a calendula to you and a marigold to me. And you're right, it is a tenacious little plant. They won't even budge after winter's first frost."

William didn't turn, but seemed captivated nonetheless. "A marigold, you say? The name suits it well. What did you want to ask me, Mabel?"

"Well," she crouched beside him, looking closely at the flower. Behind her back, she crossed her fingers. A childish thing to do, but it seemed to help her find her courage. "You told me last night to inquire for employment and to keep inquiring until I find a perfect fit. And well, Colonel, the worst that you can do is say 'no', right?"

William turned to face Mabel for the first time during this interaction. To her surprise, he didn't look angry or upset. Just as stone cold as ever. "No." Although she continued to watch the flower, begging for its help as if it were her mother's presence, he could see the disappointment in her face. "The worst that I can do is say 'yes'." Silence. He stood upright and removed the long saber from its scabbard on his horse's saddle. "Bordon!" As always, the portly officer was eager to respond. "Kindly lend Mabel your sword."

"What? Why?"

"You are here to follow orders, Bordon, not to ask questions." He groaned, pulling the blade from Bordon's unwilling hands and tossing it to Mabel. (Who embarrassingly failed to catch it, I should add.) "Both hands, Mabel. One on top of the other, like this. It is your job to anticipate my swing, do you understand?"

Although her hands were quivering, she managed to nod and prepare herself.

"You look terrified," William bullied her. Any softness that was left over on his face from their conversation about the marigold had vanished. "You get scared, you die. Now, anticipate my swing."

The blade sliced through the air, towards her kneecap. Before she could assess the direction that William was striking from, before she could even consider her next move, the sharp metal clashed and let out a morbid, yet crystal clear ring. He swung again, this time his target was higher on her body. Another successful block. It was sudden death when he reached her throat and head, but Mabel's focus and confidence grew- and with it, William's frustration. His eyes turned harsh and cold, but so did hers. Ferocity overcame her beating heart and this time, she swung instead of blocked. Her face grew white when she realized the weapon she was wielding had ripped through the black leather that covered her father's hand. The blood that was spilling onto his sleeve distracted her just long enough for him to disarm her by violently slashing into the flesh on her knuckles.

"I said block. Don't swing." Without hesitation, he placed the sharp tip of his sword at the center of Mabel's throat. "Why should I trust you?" He growled. "Why should I grant a treacherous, misinformed, insignificant little bitch such as yourself the honor of fighting for the crown. Hm?"

Her heart split in two, but Mabel continued to look on without fear.

"What is your real name?" He pushed the blade closer and closer, so that it barely punctured the tender skin on her neck.

"Mabel Tavington," Mabel declared, withholding her tears with all her might. "My name is Mabel Tavington."

"I don't believe you," his cold eyes narrowed.

"What you believe is your choice, Colonel. But that is my name. I am not insignificant or a bitch."

"Are you done!?"

The smallest trickling of blood was beginning to appear, flowing downward like a stream towards the white collar of Mabel's shirt.

Not quite," she stated, "you are the one who is misinformed, and not I."

Again, the world that lay conspicuously before him in the courageous, foolish girl's eyes was nothing short of mirrorwork. Slowly, he lowered the sword to his side. "Turn on me again and I will kill you… Soldier."


	10. A Rude Awakening

William only pretended that he didn't condone the rivalry between Mabel and Bordon. He'd shush them occasionally, when their butting heads meant a loss of focus in routine training or combat; but seeing conflict that didn't involve himself for once was an absolute treasure. Mutiny was always a concern of William's. He was terribly unpopular and not only amongst his own men. Why, his sour reputation was a regular topic of discussion for King George himself! But as long as he remained feared and above all, victorious, he was untouchable and continued to bend the rules as far as they would go.

Employing Mabel should have been the breaking point and it wasn't long before Bordon brought the issue to Cornwallis' attention. The reprimands flew, as always, right over William's head.

"If you keep the girl on," the chronically displeased Lord told William in council, "she will perish. Women are weak! It's inevitable. And her blood will be on your hands. Will you be able to live with yourself when that day comes?"

"I will, my Lord," William stated, blankly. He watched as the older man repositioned himself, uncomfortably, in his large chair. "The dragoons are my own. Mine. I am accountable for each and every one of them."

"The dragoons are a joke," Cornwallis hissed. "And you are the one who has labeled them as such. Hiring a woman?! You've been out of your damned mind from day one, Colonel. You consistently disappoint me and it's becoming clearer every day that you will never change."

"Neither will our rapport, my Lord. I provide you with flawless victories in exchange for ridicule-"

"Which you have earned!" Cornwallis interrupted. "Because, Colonel Tavington, your victories aren't flawless in the slightest. They are disorderly and grotesque."

William barely managed to shake this comment off. If there was anyone who could successfully get under his skin and undermine his confidence, it was Lord Cornwallis. He had humiliated William many times before. But since they were speaking in his private quarters, far away from the eager ears of that terrible O'Hara (to give just one example), William granted his commander a charming grin. "I get the job done, do I not?"

"By the skin of your teeth. The call is yours, but do you truly believe that you can handle the extra weight?"

"Women are weak, to use your words exactly" William pondered aloud, "and if there is anything that I have learned from years on the battlefield it is that weak soldiers are excellent buffers. The more the merrier."

"That is disgusting," his lip curled, "have you made it known to her that those are your intentions?"

"It is a bitter truth that every young recruit must come to terms with. But a lamb usually learns that it has been led to slaughter towards the end. My conscience is clear." It wasn't. For a long time thereafter, William's own words crouched behind his shoulders, ready to pounce at any minute. He had expected to dismiss Mabel that day and instead was the one to present her with her poorly tailored coat in the most unceremonial swearing in military history. She was an afterthought, a parenthesis, barely a soldier and yet, she was his responsibility. Her safety and fate were in his hands.

Mabel followed him everywhere he went, eager to impress and even more eager to learn. If she was disturbed by the carnage that she produced in combat, Mabel withheld her emotions with grace. William was open to educating her, most days, until his pursuit of the "Ghost" stole his attention away. Several days into her "employment", William noticed a new silence among his dragoons. He suspected at first that his youngest charge had faded into the crowd, just as he had asked her to do. But it didn't take long for her absence to wear on him.

"Bordon. Where the hell is Mabel?" William asked after weaving his way through the mass of weary riders. Bordon shrugged, naturally. "When did you see her last, you fool?"

"That would be… last night, Colonel." The clearly uninterested soldier droned, not even bothering to slow his horse's canter. "It's nice and quiet, too. Perhaps we can get some real work done now."

"Last night? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Look, she's the flea. You're the host. I'm just a disgusted onlooker, waiting for you to flick her away. It was just a matter of time-"

"-Enough!" William shouted, checking the crowd again only to confirm for a second time that Mabel was nowhere to be found.

…

It started in the night as nothing more than a dull pain. Mabel had willed herself to sleep, despite her discomfort. She was usually the first to rise in the morning, but the other soldiers had departed at dawn and left their sleeping comrade behind without notice. It was high noon before she awoke, covered in sweat and shivering violently against the damp ground. She traced her abnormally numb limb from the tips of her fingers to the deep crater in her shoulder that had become infected due to her negligence.

"Don't panic," she reminded herself, searching aimlessly for the strength to sit upright and finding none. "Don't you dare panic…" after taking in as much air as her lungs could hold, she called for her father and, as her desperation grew, for Annabelle and even Giselle. Nobody answered.

Her vision grew distorted and the formation of heavy tears didn't help matters. She could feel their warmth as the rolled along the edges of her cold face. She had been so preoccupied with learning the exact art of taking lives that she didn't even bother to ensure her own by seeking medical attention when she needed it.

The space surrounding her tent was quiet from what she could tell, peaceful. There were no immediate threats to her life, at least none that were coming in from the outside world. Mabel continued to tell herself to relax and that she would be able to seek help once her body regained strength. In the back of her mind, of course, she knew that this was not true. But if she was going to die, she'd rather go with a heart full of hope rather than despair. She meditated on cheerful, comforting thoughts as best she could and another name passed through her lips as effortlessly as a sigh, "Thomas."

She recalled his smile, his laugh, the way that his face lit up whenever she would appear for one of their "secret" meetings in the cornfields.

"You were the one with good intentions," she said into the silence, "you wanted to fight and be brave like your brother. I just wanted to earn my father's approval."

The traces of sunlight peeking in from the afternoon sky grew abrasive on Mabel's eyes. She closed herself off from the light and continued to imagine that Thomas was there. "I need you," she would whisper, "I need you with me right now." When she was growing up on the farm with her father, she would hear him at night, begging his late wife to haunt his dreams but to no avail. Even at a young age, she would speculate that her mother had abandoned him. Had Thomas- the ghost who promised to always watch over her, abandoned Mabel, too?

A sharp glare punctured her eyelids from the right and she turned to check its source. A dirty handheld mirror lay on its side in her semi-obsessively stacked collection of belongings. She took another deep breath of air, inhaling into the pain and "releasing" it through her lips- then, she reached. That simple stretch to obtain the mirror with her one good hand was excruciating and although it took several tries, she didn't stop until it was in her possession. She held the mirror roughly a foot away from her upper torso, slanted it upright and checked the damage on her shoulder.

It was worse than she had feared. The wound, no bigger than a buffalo nickel was ringed with shiny crimson flesh. The infection at its center was an even greater insult on the eyes. It had entered into her bloodstream like a plague and, judging by the protruding veins and sickly color of her flesh, her entire arm was likely to have been compromised. She'd have to move quickly if she wanted to save it. The only problem was, she could hardly move at all!

"Sit up, dammit," she demanded. Every attempt that followed failed. She remembered what Giselle had told her, when she was just barely old enough to handle the story of her mother's passing. Surely, Marigold Tavington hadn't brought her breeched daughter into the world without any medication or a single complaint only to have her perish like a coward in the woods. "You can do better than that. Sit the hell up."

Inch by inch, she bent her spine and pushed her weight upwards. The voices in the back of her head mocked her the entire time and perhaps, they were right to do so. After all, if the simple task of sitting was so extraneous on her, riding into town would be impossible, correct? She closed her eyes again, fat tears blended effortlessly with the sweat on her face. She was barely there, just a few more inches to go- it was then that Mabel heard a voice.

"Lay back down, Soldier." The rich, deep tone resounded in her ears. "That's an order."

Mabel knew immediately who it was and yet, she disobeyed. She kept trying to sit up on her own, despite her father's request. He laughed, only for a second before pulling her in and holding her with all of his might.

"Heavens, you are stubborn!" William grinned, against his will. He tried his best to remain as cold and calculating as ever, but the relief that he felt by simply holding her close was overwhelming. In his mind, he was merely assisting a dragoon who had fallen behind- an act that he would rarely, if ever, undergo. But there was something else at play here, too- something that he couldn't comprehend, but could surely feel- he was holding his daughter. "I've got you now. I'm going to get you the help that you need. Let go. Trust me. And let go." Mabel obliged and grew limp in his arms.

…

William wasn't there when she woke up. He had vanished with his men, without a trace. At first, she thought that it had been a dream or that her time in the 1770's had come to an end at last. One look around the quarters that she had been placed in for recovery, however, proved otherwise. It was a simple room and yet, significantly more ornate that anything she remembered from the 21st century. Velvet curtains the color of sage masked the outside world. Glistening furnishings made of real wood rather than particle board lined most of the perimeter.

The desire to explore pulled Mabel out of bed and she found that sitting, although it was still a challenge, was easier than before. She moved her hand down her shoulder and touched her fingertips, sighing in relief to discover that she hadn't lost her arm to the infection after all. As she tugged the curtains open and flinched only slightly at the incoming light, she realized that her room was looking out on a dusty yard with large gate composed of thick pieces of wood. Just above the fort's wall, a Union Jack was waving proudly in the breeze.

To the left, she could see what appeared to be stables. She grew eager to dress and report for duty straight away. But as she searched the room for her helmet and coat, Mabel found that no such items were waiting for her. Instead, a modest servant's gown had been folded on the nightstand accompanied by an apron and a pair of shiny leather shoes. Her career as a dragoon had ended before it began.


	11. The Identity Crisis of Mabel Tavington

Growing up, Mabel's classmates had difficulty coping with her rise to fame. She was quiet, reclusive and deemed untouchable long before her first semester at Waterford Junior High. The Autumn that she entered the sixth grade, Mabel realized that she had grown significantly taller over the summer. So much, in fact that she towered over, not only the students in her own grade, but nearly all the upperclassmen, including the entire boys' basketball team.

She was teased for this along with her tomboyish and innately antisocial behavior. Rumors were spun, some more hurtful than others and although she managed to push most of them aside, the attacks on her lack of femininity were the most prominent. By the end of the year, she had heard it whispered so often and seen it scribbled countless times on the locker room walls- that she was beginning to believe that she truly was awkward, undesirable and simply unattractive.

It shouldn't have hurt so much. God knows, she transcended those petty words as best she could- until the day that they bled over into the riding community.

"Of course, Tavington wasn't invited to the Winter Gala. Could you imagine how stupid she'd look in a dress?!" She heard a sidelined competitor say. Most of the girls from her district knew one another and would bunch up together in the front row during state competitions. Mabel spent this time in the back with Buttercup. Regardless, their shrill, nasal voices carried throughout the entire stadium.

"She'd be better off throwing a gown on her horse and sending it to dance instead!" Another girl chimed in, repositioning a large bow on the top of her friend's ponytail.

"Right!? I doubt anybody would be able to tell the difference."

One of the girl's mothers approached the group. She had always been kind to Mabel and even asked her daughter to include her in their activities when they were in riding camp together some years back. Mabel was sure that she was going to stand up for her. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did. She watched, anticipating the feeling of seeing her wicked peers being put in their place.

"Now, girls," the mother said calmly, "that's a terrible thing to say." Her orange, spray-tanned face rose so that it was level with Mabel's. "Buttercup can hear you. And she is a very pretty horse!"

Not only did the group break out in laughter, but taunting chuckles arose from the entire section. Mabel's eyes dropped to her boots and they remained there, locked, until it was time to compete. She talked herself up in the back of her mind. Her appearance didn't matter, only her score. She would mop the floor with those shallow, gossiping children with her flawless routine! The microphone crackled in the silence and her entry number was announced over the loudspeaker. "Number 82. _Buttercup_ and her horse, _Mabel_."

The routine progressed. Just as she had practiced it, a thousand times before. Her inner thoughts were louder than the laughter that surrounded her. Every move was textbook and undoubtedly trophy-worthy. She managed to fight through the distraction- the painful fact that the entire state of South Carolina was laughing at her until she made eye contact with the judges at the very end. Everyone at the table, young and old, were covering their mouths and eyes. Their faces were red and mocking. Her scores were withheld as they negotiated and still, their laughter prevailed. Nobody had seen her compete that day, nobody was aware of her transcendence. They had only seen the joke and Mabel was invisible.

…

"I want something pretty to wear to school on Monday," Mabel told Giselle as they pulled into a well-loved outlet mall between Waterford and Pembroke.

Giselle put the car in park and very nearly squealed behind her teeth. "Halle-friggin'-lu-jah! You know, I've been wantin' to play your fairy godmother since you were conceived, Bumblebee!? Let's break out the sewing machine when we get home… and the glitter! So. Much. Glitter."

"You wanted me to be a pageant zombie," Mabel unbuckled her seatbelt with an elaborate eyeroll, "that's not what I have in mind…"

"Tell you what, I'll go find a new waffle iron. You browse through this incredible shopping mecca and if you find something that fits the bill, we'll negotiate. Savvy?" The selection of stores was overwhelming. Every time Mabel went shopping with her godparents, she'd head straight for the newsstands and hunt feverishly for mentions of her name in the large variety of equestrian magazines. The idea of browsing was absolutely foreign to her. "I don't know where to begin! What kinds of clothes do they sell there?" She pointed to the largest storefront on the block.

"That's an Old Navy, Bumblebee," Giselle was so stunned, she almost forgot to lock her door.

"Huh. Everyone leaving the store with merchandise are around my age. Kind of strange for a place that caters to elderly veterans who served in the Navy…"

"Christ on a cracker. What kind of a child have I raised!? They sell casual attire. Comfy stuff." Giselle inevitably got lured off of her path by a large basket of discounted yarn by the entryway to a large, corporate craft store.

"I don't think pretty attire is supposed to be comfy…" Mabel followed behind her godmother, wringing her hands nervously. Giselle was a bit too preoccupied to realize just how troubled Mabel was by the mere idea of looking for clothes that weren't for riding.

"Well, Kiddo. That depends on your definition of pretty," said Giselle without looking up. "Give me some ideas and I'll point you in the right direction."

Lava rose in Mabel's chest. Her personal definition of all things feminine and lovely was polished and refined, but also very secret, like a treasure she kept hidden away from the rest of the world. The billboards and large posters that lined the street all fell flat. Women bearing too much flesh were shoved into studded heels that didn't fit and paid to look like they were having fun- frame after miserable frame.

In contrast, the images of Marigold that Giselle had scanned and saved on the family PC weren't taken to sell products. Her colorful dresses were modest and ladylike, the makeup on her face was minimal and the almost juvenile barrettes and headbands that she wore in her long, blonde hair gave her a sense of playfulness that complimented her beauty. She was always put together and never too much- she was a real lady and it broke Mabel's heart every day to contemplate how close she came to knowing and learning from her.

"Which of these stores do you think," Mabel began, treading as carefully as possible. The seriousness in her voice managed to catch Giselle's attention. "Or… better yet, where was… her… favorite place to shop?"

The roll of yarn that Giselle had been admiring was abandoned right away. "Come here," her tone was welcoming and soft. Mabel sneered as her arms stretched open, "Come here, Bumblebee." Once the young girl caved and moved in for the hug, Giselle pulled her in, practically dragging the backs of Mabel's boots across the sidewalk. "Your mother… how can I say this? Your mother was…" despite the years that had passed, the memory of her best friend renewed those old wounds. Her eyes grew weak and tearful, thank goodness Mabel couldn't see them. "… a hipster."

"A hamster?" Her voice was no more than a muted echo inside of Giselle's chest- that's how tight she was holding her!

"What? No."

Mabel's face came into view and they grinned at one another while reciting in unison, "Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"

"In all seriousness, Bumblebee," the sadness returned to Giselle's eyes. Merely looking at Mabel and seeing her similarities to Marigold caused her to remember the vacancy in her heart that all of the Monty Python quotes in the world couldn't mend. "She used to drag me into every secondhand store between here and Charleston and try on vintage dresses until closing time! The only dress I ever saw her purchase new was the one she wore the day she married Fa. And even it was styled after the cutesy crap they wore in the '50's."

Mabel examined the maze of storefronts a second time, "I guess we picked the wrong outlet, huh?"

Giselle inhaled, gathering as much strength as she possibly could. "I don't know if you ever saw them. You never were one to snoop. But your father saved her dresses. Every single one of them, for you. Mercy knows you're tall enough to wear them all now! But only if you want to…"

Of course, Mabel had seen the dresses. He'd kept them hanging in the closet of the room they shared, as if Marigold still needed them- as if she had never left his side at all. The room remained very much the same throughout Mabel's childhood. Apparently, her father never had the heart to re-arrange it, either. Despite its sad history, it was the cheeriest room in the house with soft yellow curtains and brightly colored furnishings. Giselle would dust it every now and then in order to maintain its integrity, but the door remained closed for the most part.

After placing the new waffle iron in the kitchen, Mabel and Giselle headed upstairs and stepped into the space. The walk-in closet that William had so lovingly preserved was still in working order, even the drawstring light hadn't burned out after all those years. Mabel reached out and moved her hand across the soft fabrics that bore a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. A gentle breeze of lavender essential oil and Marigold's signature Tea Rose perfume swirled around them like a happy phantom.

"They're all so…" Mabel suspended her comment just long enough to look at Giselle, whose eyes were on the floor.

"Flowery, huh?"

"A little bit," Mabel replied, carefully and was relieved when her comment was met with a tiny chuckle.

"Pick one out, Bumblebee."

She slid the hangers gently, moving from one rosy, lacy frock to another. The Peter Pan collars and large pearl buttons hardly suited her taste. Neither did the line of patent leather flats or thick-soled mary janes. Towards the end of the second row, Mabel located a tidy, blue sailor dress that would fit her like a glove. It reminded her, only slightly, of her favorite jacket that was meant for dressage but she wore everyday.

"This one sort of looks like me…"

"I remember that frock!" A large smile returned to Giselle's face. "She wore it to my 25th birthday party and humiliated the stuffing out of me by reciting a poem about my lifelong crush on Garrison Keillor. I forgave her the very next day, of course."

Mabel's eyebrow arched. "Garrison Keillor!?"

"Well, she was the one responsible for getting me into Prairie Home in the first place. So, she was guilty by association…"

"No wonder Fa made make me listen to those whacky tales from Lake Wobegon every Saturday! Some of the music was good, I guess, but most of it was just… creepy," she shuddered, exiting the closet to hold the dress up against herself in the yellow-framed mirror beside the window.

"Yup, that was definitely Mare's doing. You know when your father first arrived from…"

"1781," Mabel confirmed, acceptingly.

"1781… he couldn't even flip a light switch. Let alone drive a car and browse the stations for Mr. Keillor's adorable lil' lisp-" she threw her head back and laughed at Mabel's cringe. "My point is this… he probably would have thought that Old Navy sold exclusively to elderly veterans, too. You're like both of them, Bumblebee. A glorious lil' casserole of all their best and most endearing attributes."

The dress looked strange, unnatural against Mabel's muscular body and stern expression. "His reputation as a dragoon was pretty sour," she unbuttoned her white dress shirt and tossed it to the side, leaving on her camisole and skintight riding pants. Giselle helped her slip the dress over her head and fastened the side zipper and back buttons. "Do you think he was lonely, too? Like me?"

"We all feel lonesome sometimes, Bumblebee. It will pass. Someday soon, you'll know exactly who you are and everything will just… fall into place."

Mabel gazed into her reflection. She looked awkward, incomplete. Before removing the dress for good, she pulled the elastic out of her hair, allowing her long tresses to spill over her shoulders. A beam of sunlight crept into the room, accentuating her highlights and turning her hair, if only for a moment, the color of the sun. She tried her best to imitate her mother's shy, childlike smile and was disappointed by the results. No thanks to the embarrassing notch between her two front teeth that had set the "horse" rumor in motion in the first place! As she turned to search through the closet again for a better match, the sunbeam revealed an item that she had overlooked- her father's riding boots. She raced back to the closet, picked them up and held them to her heart. Giselle was confused at first, but when her goddaughter's face came into view, she fell apart from the inside-out.

"We were both outcasts," Mabel wept, "we both didn't belong. Here. Or anywhere. But at least we had one another!" She allowed Giselle to hold her in one of her infamously tight embraces. "I want to be just like him. No matter what they say…"

…

The servant's gown was designed to cover every inch of incriminating flesh. Any trace of beauty that it possessed could be found in its corseted bodice. But when Mabel was fully dressed, her apron- the same emerald green as the walls in those humble quarters that she was now forced to reside within, covered its lace embellishments completely.

She wound her hair tightly, as tight as she could without giving in to the pain in her shoulder, and created a military-style bun at the back of her head. This would have to do. Or rather, it would have worked had the elastic not snapped and fallen to the ground in a coil.

"Damn," she mumbled, trying her best to salvage the band, only to have it snap a second time, "I guess that's the death of my ponytail, too."

The clouds that filled the afternoon sky were quickly breaking apart. As Mabel returned to her reflection, her loose strands of hair caught the light, just as it did that day in her parents' abandoned bedroom. Only this time, she found that she had grown into the features that her wavy locks framed. Her nose, once overly prominent had shifted into an elegant upwards slant, her cheekbones had defined themselves through the departure of her baby fat and her lips were full and pink on their own, without the help of cosmetics.

She had merely laughed off the term when Thomas told her that she was "beautiful". But for the first time in her life, she was beginning to suspect that she was on the path the beauty. She was her mother's daughter, after all. Mabel hesitated before tucking Marigold's silver bee pendent in her collar and attempted, yet again, to resurrect the same smile that her mother wore on her lips. Her teeth got in the way once more and pulled her out of the trance.

"You best be hiding that away fast, Missy-" a female voice with a lilting cockney accent carried across the room. "Serving girls mustn't wear anything ostentatious! Even if it is from a handsome soldier!"

"Oh," Mabel followed the command and turned, searching for the voice's source. "Right. About that. Would you mind telling me where I'm supposed to be?"

A young woman, no older than Mabel peeked around the corner. She was clothed in the same attire and very fair with rosy cheeks and a sloppy bun of hair that was blacker than the blackest crow. As she stepped forward, she gave a tiny bow before covering her mouse-like face to chuckle. "You aren't even supposed to be awake yet! Colonel Tavington requested that someone keep an eye on you and… to put it politely… I pulled the shortest straw."

This relieved her tension a great deal. "So, I'm supposed to stay here, then?"

"Until Lord Cornwallis requires you. Seems that nasty, nasty Colonel managed to get you the most sought after position in the house! He's supposed to be quite the negotiator." The girl's voice changed to an irritatingly dreamy whisper. "What is it like being courted by a gentleman of such esteem?! And with such a dreadful temper?! You must tell me everything! Miss…?"

"Uhm. Mabel-"

"Daphne!" she stuck her hand in Mabel's face and hardly seemed satisfied until it was properly shook.

"Daphne, I'm afraid I wouldn't know. Colonel Tavington is my…" she could feel herself beginning to sweat. Unsure of the kind of story she should construct over these circumstances, she spat out the first, logical word that came to mind, "employer. On the subject, we discussed that I was going to work in the stables."

"Maybe he isn't that talented at negotiating after all?!" Daphne gave Mabel a tiny wink. "He did seem concerned with you, however. Which is a rarity for our… devilish Colonel. Does this mean that I can continue to pester him for a roll in the hay?!"

Mabel blushed. As much as the dragoons disliked her father, the ladies seemed to be more than approving of him! She didn't want to respond, but forced herself to give a tentative (not to mention, nauseated) "Uhhh… sure", in hopes of moving the conversation along. After a good twenty minutes of trying to distract Daphne into discussing something other than the way Colonel Tavington's "bum" looks in his riding pants, Mabel managed to successfully garner some information about Lord Cornwallis.

"He's very decent and gentlemanly to just about everybody. Oh, and is secretly a bit of a softie, especially when dogs are thrown into the picture," Daphne stated in the lowest voice that she could find, secretly loving the opportunity to gossip, "But don't let that proper exterior fool you, he is wicked smart and I've heard him get very angry more than once. Usually at our Colonel. Which is why I'm a bit concerned for you, really. Even if you are partial to the Colonel… and I wouldn't blame you if you were… you shouldn't seem biased."

"So, remain neutral?" Mabel decided, yet again, not to argue and nodded pensively before turning to sit on her bed. The pain had returned and she was beginning to think that dressing wasn't the best idea after all. She would have been able to sneak back into her bedclothes, but Daphne's voice carried and it wasn't long before Mabel received her first summon. Although it reality, it was more Cornwallis' attempt to quiet down those corridors for a while.

She did not expect to be intimidated by him. After all, it took a lot to intimidate Mabel Tavington! Upon first glance, he seemed just as tenderhearted as Daphne had foretold. He stole a quick look at Mabel from over the top of his books, moved the clutter away and, to her surprise, invited her to sit. She managed a clumsy bow before crossing the room, just for safety.

"Do you always dawdle?" Cornwallis moaned, urging poor Mabel to move faster.

"Only when I'm not supposed to!" The blank expression that she was met with caused her blood pressure to skyrocket. "My apologies, my Lord."

"Your name is Mabel, correct?" His tiny eyes scanned her face several times. He appeared to be welcoming, at least until he gave her eyes an extended visit and found- without fully understanding the circumstances- that they were identical to William's. "Do you have a surname?"

"Casey," she said quickly, hoping that it was the correct answer.

"Miss Casey…" his expression was quickly descending into a terribly unpleasant glare, "pin your hair back next time, you look like a drowned rat."

 **A/N: Guest, your wish has been granted! (Or almost.) Lol. I'm working out an… interesting dynamic for Mabel and Cornwallis.**


	12. Origins

Riding through Waterford was a task that William both dreaded and craved. Each time his dragoons rode nearby or through the village's center, he was forced to relive young Annabelle's anguish as he deliberately ended her sisters' lives. The glances that he inevitably stole of her in the schoolyard and through the classroom's distorted window added to his guilt. And yet, he couldn't look away.

The cheerful young woman, the hummingbird, who joyfully passed from conversation to conversation, was no more. She wore this deep melancholy with as much elegance and grace as her joy. Despite the pain that he felt from seeing her in such a state, he adored everything about her. Even her sadness.

One fateful Autumn day, when the "Ghost" had vanished and the path was barren of any evidence, William visited Waterford without his comrades. The name that had appeared so often in his dreams hung heavy in his mind. He selected his words, threw on his mask of strength and readied himself to speak to Annabelle for the first time in weeks.

"Marigold". A name that once bore little importance to him, even after Mabel's identification of the flower in the woods, was now closely associated with Annabelle, herself. Little did he know that she was having similar dreams and that they were just as vague and obscure as his own. They would have benefited from this conversation- but young Annabelle was nowhere to be found. She had left Waterford without a trace.

It is worth noting that William was not the only one who was trying to regain contact with Annabelle.

Mabel must have penned a hundred letters by the time she composed one that she found worthy of sending. Even after it was completed, the odds of the letter making it out of the fort and on an unbroken path to Waterford were small. The idea of entrusting her letter to William had crossed her mind, but the content was sensitive, explanatory. Should he decide to open it, and I think we all know that William would have very easily given into this temptation, it would have complicated their relationship further. The letter needed refining if she was going to take this route.

Mabel and William interacted when he visited the fort, but it was always done with great haste and discretion. Usually, he would ask about the condition of her shoulder and be on his way. His dreams of this "Marigold" had yet to bear witness to the birth of their daughter. Still, spending his time meditating on Annabelle and Marigold- and then being face-to-face with Mabel was one emotional landslide that his psyche could not afford. Especially on top of all of this "Ghost" business.

"Is Cornwallis kind to you, at least?" He asked before parting, doing his best to not look the child directly in her eyes.

"He's weird," Mabel trailed William, eagerly, into the stables. She always felt a wonderful surge of energy being there, in her natural environment. The fact that she was supervised and therefore, permitted to be in this location for however long her onlooker was present, was bizarrely comforting. It felt marvelous to stand in such a familiar place, with her "father" again, if only for a moment.

"Weird," William failed to mask a chuckle as he made sure that his tack was in order before preparing to ride. "How so?"

"Every time he summons me, I expect he's going to require tea or for me to fetch him a collection of books from the upstairs corridors. But, no. Instead, Lord Cornwallis asks me to… sit and talk. 'Company is your service to me', he always says."

His left eyebrow worked its way into its signature arch. "Company?"

"It isn't like that," Mabel clarified with an uncomfortable laugh, giving William's horse, Bellamy the smallest kiss on his fuzzy snout, "you told him that I was a 'conversationalist' when I first arrived, apparently. So, we… converse."

"He interrogates you? That doesn't surprise me. You are an oddity amongst the colonials. But colonial nonetheless."

"One would think. He is calculating. And harsh. And then… he is not…" she explained, "he seems to loosen up whenever the topic of… dogs… is brought up."

William knelt and, for the first time all day, looked his "daughter" square in the face with only a fraction of discomfort. "As innocent as it may seem, every conversation with Lord Cornwallis is an attempt to collect information. I have only a faint idea of who you are and where you come from. You are a complete enigma, Mabel. Which is why you should consider all of your words carefully."

Mabel felt a chill. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I wanted to keep you safe. That's why I brought you here. Trust me, this is the still the safest place for you. All that I am asking is that you keep your wits about you. Will you do that for me?" He disengaged once he had her nod.

"Colonel," she touched his arm, urging him to stay put for a moment longer. "I have a request, too. It is regarding Annabelle Casey."

"Annabelle Casey?" He was bewildered, but only in part. "What does this request entail?"

"You asked me when we first met if I was a Casey, do you remember? It would appear as though there is some truth to that after all." She let out a small, tense laugh. The expression on William's face was cryptic and his response could go one of many ways. "I know that you are acquainted with the Caseys and… I have written a letter for Annabelle-" the instant Mabel pulled the letter from her apron, it was seized. "It's for Annabelle, Colonel. Please-" she sighed as he tore into it. That didn't take long at all. Thank goodness she had revised it!

William scanned through the words with hunger and greed. Helplessly, he sought whatever answers it bore:

 _Annabelle,_

 _I apologize for the lateness of this letter and for my sudden disappearance all those weeks ago. Knowing that I left someone as selfless and kind as you behind during such a tumultuous time in your life hardly seems justified. Please believe me when I say that you, your sisters and the Whitley Family have been in my heart every day. The words that you said to comfort me, the vow that you made to look after and love me as if you were my mother and the care that you gave me after I lost Thomas only prove that you have been and always will be my guardian angel. I pray that you are safe and I hope that you will find comfort in knowing that I am safe, too. It is all thanks to William- your William. I believe that someday soon, the three of us will meet again and will finally be able to discuss these mysterious bonds that tie us together._

 _Until that time,_

 _M._

The closing sentences affected him as greatly as one might expect. But it was the name, "Thomas" along with the recognition of her sisters and the Whitleys that caused William's demeanor to change. Gently, as if she were made of glass, he pulled Mabel in.

"You are safe here," he seemed to reassure himself- even before Mabel. "War is a terrible and dangerous affair, dear girl. I will make it my priority to deliver you and Annabelle from its dangers." As he spoke, the undeniable images of Annabelle and himself that were reflected in Mabel's face gave him courage and serenity. Unconsciously, as if he had no other choice in the world, he pressed his warm, soft lips against his daughter's forehead. Once the gesture had ended, he rode away in stone cold silence.

Mabel lingered in the stables, just long enough to convince herself that crying wasn't an option. That was the first time that her father had embraced her since before his paralysis. The unwavering admiration and love that she had felt for her father, even long after his death, filled her heart and made her feel whole again. Colonel Tavington was a different man than the father that she knew, but maybe, just maybe having Annabelle and Mabel nearby would keep "The Butcher" at bay.

…

As long as William was unaware of Annabelle's location, the letter remained nearby- haunting him silently with its presence.

His mind had always been split in two. One half ensured order and progress while the other, his gentler side, allowed him to be observant and nearly infatuated with the natural world around him. Those dreams of Annabelle and this "Marigold" figure, consumed every bit of his mind that hadn't been claimed by his career as a soldier. Every flower that brightened his path, every fleeting song produced by the tiny throats of the final birds of summer took her place in her absence. And those dreams… those strange and wonderful dreams of a life that they lead together in another place and time- they became aggravated and slowly turned to nightmares.

With Annabelle gone and the "Ghost" threatening his already tarnished reputation, William glimpsed one painful moment after another of his life with Marigold; while at the same time, uncovering the origin of Mabel Tavington:

It was Springtime on their farm and their garden needed special attention if they wanted a prosperous summer harvest. William watched, unnoticed and separate, as this man who looked and acted exactly like himself, tied a withering sunflower to a makeshift crutch. Marigold was not far off, moving down a row of tomato vines with a large, wicker basket tucked securely beneath her arm.

"I just got an idea," she exclaimed, poking her lovely, cheerful face between the green leaves. Her long, pale hair that usually hung freely down her back was braided on both sides and piled on top of her head. To his surprise, William found adoration for even this subtle change and grew captivated by the way the sunlight grazed the back and sides of her long, swan-like neck that was usually concealed.

As she headed down the row of vines and closer to the rectangle of land where the sunflowers grew, William also noticed that Marigold wasn't wearing her usual ensemble of a dress and flats, but a pair of loose-fitting denim overalls over a sweet, flowery t-shirt. His "modern" doppelganger straightened out his back and turned, softly kissing the centermost edge of his wife's white neck. His attention to this exposed bit of flesh further proved to William that they were the exact same man.

"What idea is that, Sunshine?" He reached for the basket of tomatoes, but Marigold seemed to withhold it.

She reached inside and pulled out a cluster of the shimmering red orbs along with the bit of green that held them together. "Smell the vine," Marigold instructed with a grin. "Isn't it lovely? Almost like basil and… something else."

"Lemon basil, maybe," said William as he followed her request. "It's wonderful! So, you're thinking tomato vine for your next batch of beeswax soap?"

"I'm not sure how it will react in the essential oil still. Or how the customers will receive it…" Marigold's eyes lowered as she second-guessed herself. It sounded like a silly idea when spoken out loud.

"Do you remember your first week at the farmer's market?" William placed his finger beneath her chin, speaking with great encouragement. "You put those "Limited Time Only" stickers on the sunflower honey and the jars practically flew off the shelves?" He accepted her sweet, girlish smile before kissing her forehead and removing the basket from her arms. Once she was relieved of the weight, his eyes dropped to her arms. What started out as a small tremble grew into a violent shake. Within moments, her knees buckled and she crashed into her husband's strong torso. "Marigold?!"

She cursed, fighting to stand on her own. "Not again…"

"Again?!"

"I think it's the heat," she reassured him. "Pregnancy is unpleasant like that."

The word, "pregnancy" nearly flew over the top of their "visitor's" head. When Marigold's state worsened, they abandoned the basket and gardening tools and he carried her towards the house. The changes in her face unseen by the William of this world, but the other William watched as something that looked like a terrible realization invaded sweet Marigold's childlike features.

"William," she whispered as they reached the brown farmhouse's steps. "I think something might be wrong with our baby…" her hand gripped tightly onto his red flannel, "I think something might be wrong with Mabel."

 **A/N: This chapter was weirdly hard to write- so I hope it reads okay! Characterization and inner monologues are kind of my forte, but William and Mabel… and, in the chapters to come, Annabelle, are juggling a ton of emotional baggage right now. So… woof. Thanks again for your reviews and your "get wells", I'm finally feeling like a human again. AND from laying around all week/weekend, I have a fun, new plot outline to work from. Yay? Stay tuned… X**


	13. Changing Tides

Unlike William, Mabel's dreams granted her an increasing sense of hope. The more reason that her father gave her to believe that she had found her parents and that somehow, they would be a family again; the harder Mabel's mind worked at creating some chronology in which they were together from the start. Her hopes would have continued to flourish but ghosts have a special talent for showing when you least expect them:

Daphne insisted on sleeping with the window open, even as the colder months approached. The other young women who resided in the surrounding quarters stated their complaints, but she didn't seem to budge. That is, of course, until Mabel finally barked at her. All were sleeping pleasantly in the warm space one night (aside from Daphne, of course) when a draft tore Mabel from her lovely dream. A pity, too. Not only were Marigold and William present to see her sweep the competition at her steeplechase, but Tommy Martin was there as well. And he appeared to be very impressed with her victory.

She was ready and willing to raise her voice at her annoyingly endearing "roommate" yet again, but her weary eyes found that all the surrounding windows had been shut. The draft, although it was cold at first, warmed as it enclosed itself consciously around Mabel's resting body. Then came a whisper of a soft, tenor voice that she dearly missed, "I am here." The more that she relaxed, the tighter Thomas held her.

"Don't let go," she replied, low enough for only him to hear. "You were in my dream just now. If not, in another form…"

"I've come to warn you of the danger that you have welcomed into your heart."

At first, she sighed. His entrance had been so soft, so all-encompassing and if I may be so bold, so close to the kind of "contact" that she had never truly felt before, but strongly desired. "Danger?" She asked, half-asleep and half-interested.

"Your father," Thomas began, the strain on his voice indicated that he was delivering these tidings with difficulty, "you've granted him your trust far too easily."

"He's my father," Mabel snapped, without giving his words the benefit of any assessment, "of course I trust him! Have you even been paying attention? Have you even been watching me like you said you would? I love my father. He's only just started to realize who I am. And I can tell that he loves me, too. All that I ever wanted was for us to be together again. Please tell me that you understand this?!" Although the ghost still latched onto her, Mabel could feel that his embrace was beginning to lose interest.

"I do."

"You can't possibly believe that my father poses a threat to me…"

"The scar on your shoulder," a breeze-like touch smoothed across the healing wound, "should be all the proof you need. I know that he is kind to you in one moment… but once that moment is gone… You must look out for yourself, Mabel. It will be less painful when the blood on his hands comes into view."

Mabel abandoned her pursuit of rest as her wits sharpened. Although she didn't want to, she recalled the terrible Colonel Tavington that Giselle had told her of in her youth. "I don't care," was her predictably defiant answer. "He didn't have me here before! Besides," her mind, stubborn as ever, steered itself away from accepting what she was being told. "When I rode with the dragoons, they didn't seem so… _tyrannical_. Perhaps if I could find a way to ride with him again-"

"You're avoiding the issue, beautiful Mabel. Just like I knew that you would." His voice was as adoring as ever, but Mabel knew it well enough to detect annoyance.

"Cornwallis has taken issue with his brutality, too. Maybe I am here to serve as a wedge between…" she mumbled, fighting to keep her thoughts in order.

"It may seem like a good idea to you right now, but no good can come from you reengaging in combat." His voice changed back to a whisper of defeat. "I fear for you. That is all."

When he first arrived, Mabel could feel the breeze stroking the top of her hand; but as her mind wandered to ending their fruitless conversation, that caressing motion came to an end instead. She wanted to lay there, to be held and nothing more, but the visitation had ended and because of her own defiance, no less.

"Thomas?" Mabel asked the dark void around her. "You'd better come back or I might do something really stupid," she teased, "I'm an equestrian first. And equestrians always find a way to ride…" her voice faltered, the impact of Thomas' abandonment finally crushed down on top of her. Mabel found sleep shortly after, but it was tainted with loneliness and not nearly as sweet as it had been.

…

The tiny structure in the woods that Annabelle had claimed as her own became a time capsule for her changing moods and whims. Her dreams were the driving force of these maddening, ever-changing tides. To make matters worse, her dreams and William's dreams had synchronized, making it impossible to forget the effect that he had on her heart. Recently, he was refusing to sleep for fear of Marigold's deteriorating health. The empty space that surrounded her as a result grew hungry for any sort of content.

Thomas knew of this gaping hole in her conscience. Probably because it was frighteningly similar to the one that he had left Mabel with just moments ago. As Annabelle lay on her cot, covered only by a pile of clothes that its past owner had abandoned, the friendly little ghost attempted to sneak a word in or two.

"Mabel prides herself for the similarities she shares with her father," Thomas began, sifting through the stack of pages on Annabelle's "desk", in hopes of waking her.

"I suppose that is true," her eyes remained shut. Her voice, aloof. From beneath the coverage of stained and tattered outerwear, her lilywhite foot swung back and forth in the air.

Being dead hardly removed Thomas from his desire to pull pranks. Upset by his inability to startle Annabelle, he retorted, "I take it you customarily speak to ghosts?"

This seemed to spark her attention! As she shot upright, Annabelle's careless, blonde tresses toppled over her face. She pulled them back as best she could and started to search the room, her green eyes filled with wonder. "No! But I've always wanted to! Is that what you are, Sir?"

Thomas didn't respond right away, in an attempt to seem "ominous".

"You spoke of Mabel earlier," Annabelle stumbled to her feet. An excitable mess of slept-on hair and awkwardly fitting men's clothes, she meandered around the small "building", trying to locate the ghost. "Do you know where she is?" She stopped, feeling rather desperate. Still, the welcoming grin on her face was more than present. "Do you know if she is alright, at least?"

"I like to think that I do a decent job watching over Mabel, thank you very much."

Annabelle's smile widened and as her usual restlessness commenced, she jumped up and down only slightly. "Will you take me to her, please? It's so lonely out here with nobody to talk to! I've always thought of Mabel as-"

"A daughter?"

"Well," her tiny jumps came to a halt, if only for a moment, "as much of a daughter as a sixteen-year-old can be to a nineteen-year-old, I suppose. It's complicated. And the dreams that I've had of her fa-"

"Father?"

"Yes. William," she seemed to instantly regret the loving tone that her voice changed to upon speaking his name, "Could you take me to William, too?"

"I can't take you anywhere. Ghosts can't stay in this world for that long and I have no interest in having you become lost in the woods when I go… poof!"

"I'm already lost in the woods." Annabelle groaned, softly. "Fine. Why have you come to visit me on this fine evening… Mr. Ghost?"

"Thomas," he released a gentle laugh, causing the nearby pages to shuffle for a second time, "you have the same smile, you know? As Mabel? It's pretty."

"You're Thomas Martin!?" She gasped, too preoccupied with the papers that had just moved to give any notice to his compliment. "And you found Mabel again! Have you spoken to her, too?"

"I have. Unfortunately, Mabel isn't the best listener…"

Annabelle had to stop herself from laughing. "I'm sorry. It's just been so long since I've spoken with anyone at all. You're far too young to be a ghost, Thomas! So are my sisters. Say, you haven't seen them, either? I'd give anything to speak to them again!"

"I'll see what I can do for you," he said, passively, "and you will see Mabel again. Soon. And her father. In the days to come, you will draw nearer and nearer to her door. Between now and then, I will do my best to talk some sense into her and prepare her for what lies ahead. I wanted to speak to you tonight because you are, more or less, her mother. As her mother, you have leverage where others do not. There is a toxin, however. An evil that you have both let into your hearts. You have known William Tavington for a little over a month now, yes? Mabel has known and loved him her whole life."

"Because he is her father," Annabelle moved to the edge of her cot and covered her face. As she did so, her hair billowed over her hands. "And you are right. I cannot be rid of him. Even after what he did to my family! Please understand… William is a kind and precious soul, who is possessed by a terrible demon..."

"When you see him again, he will offer you an escape. To the Caribbean Islands. Far away from this war-torn land."

"See?" Annabelle's smile returned, "Because he cares for us. Because he is good-"

"You must accept his offer." Thomas replied, quickly. "Before he harms Mabel again."

That statement hit Annabelle's stomach with as much weight as an airborne cannonball. "I beg your pardon!?"

"He shot her right through the shoulder. And he'll do it again. I fear that next time, she won't be as lucky. Heaven knows, I wasn't."

"You?" Her face was growing whiter by the minute. "William killed you? Does Mabel know about this?"

"I only recently pieced it together. And no. I tried to tell her tonight. I tried to tell her many things. But she's as stubborn as they come and a downright terrible listener. I'm assuming those traits are compliments of her father because you seem absolutely charming."

Again, his compliment flew right over Annabelle's head. She understood who William and Marigold were and had some semblance of an idea of where Mabel came from, but when those words came from a source other than her dreams, she shuddered at their forwardness. "She is my responsibility, Thomas," she covered and uncovered her face, kneading her temples in a feeble attempt to unravel her mess of thoughts, "she is my daughter. I demand you tell me where she is this instant!"

Perhaps Thomas had witnessed enough stubbornness for one night, perhaps the duration of his visit to the mortal world had grown short, but Annabelle received nothing but silence in the end. The only sense of comfort that she found as the night wore on, came as her dreaming mind meditated on the Caribbean. She wasn't sure if this "dream" bore any resemblance to what her future would hold or if it was a whim and nothing more.

Annabelle saw that she and Mabel were comfortably stowed in a palatial structure by the sea. The residence was shared with primarily British occupants and from their balcony, mighty wooden ships bearing their flag could be seen in the docks. She looked passed them, as if they were unimportant, as if she had already watched every passenger disembark. As Annabelle stared longingly past the whitecaps and into the calm, blue stretch of sea, she understood what her life there would be like. A guilted, endless watch for William Tavington's return from the colonies.


	14. Confessions

William continued to escape from dreaming as best he could. When Cornwallis got ear of the night raids that the dragoons were initiating, he summoned William to his quarters. It was not the fury of his commander that William feared, but the effect that seeing Mabel again would have on him. With Mabel and Annabelle pushed far into the back of his mind, he was unstoppable, and he was managing extraordinarily well with replacing the desire to protect his family with his ambitions as a soldier. But this solution was temporary and doomed to fail.

"You haven't asked how your friend is faring, Colonel," Cornwallis noted when his reprimands had declined into a lull. "I was under the impression that you cared a great deal for that little gobshite."

William's stern expression melted away without warning. He'd never known the _gentlemanly_ Lord Cornwallis to be capable of such profanity. "She speaks often. But she speaks well," he defended Mabel with a tone of accidental admiration.

"Young Mabel brought something to my attention the other day, Colonel. I thought that she was out of her mind at first and dismissed her in something of a rage. Would you like to know what it was she told me?"

"If your Lordship doesn't mind," William drained his face of emotion and returned to his tall, almost regal stance, "I'd rather return to the fields. Now that you have spoken, or rather, hollered your part."

"Mabel suggested," Cornwallis continued, ignoring William's uncordial remark, "that you are more liable to follow my orders and withhold your brutality when she rides with you. After careful consideration, I have decided that you are to reinstate her."

"Careful consideration, my Lord!?" William nearly shouted, erupting out whatever remnants of a shell that he had enclosed himself within. "When last we spoke of Mabel, you said that she wouldn't stand a chance in combat!"

"And you wanted to use her as a buffer, remember? I am willing to try anything if only to deter your brutality for a while. If Mabel is the soldier that you made her out to be last time, surely, no harm will come to her."

"Use my own words against me, why don't you!?" Barked the sleep-deprived dragoon, casting his shadow over his seated commander. "There was something to your first impression after all," his voice might have softened, but didn't waver in his desperation, "I do care for Mabel. Which is why I have decided to send her to England in my stead. I will follow your orders, my Lord. I will forego my own lunges for victory and fall into obscurity if you will ready a coach and guards to take Mabel to the harbor in Charlestown."

"It sounds to me," Cornwallis traced his lips with the edge of his finger in thought, "as if you are asking for a favor, Colonel."

"You have endorsed the relocation of many soldiers' families, have you not?"

Cornwallis wasn't phased in the least, "I don't know which well you are drawing this information from, Colonel. Even if she was English and bore your last name, why would I personally fund her voyage? And across the sea to England, no less!?"

"If proximity is your concern, the Caribbean would be sufficient. Or any place of the like. All that I want is for Mabel to be safe."

"Tell me," he leaned across his desk in interest, "what is your relationship to Miss Casey." He locked eyes with William, parsing their shape and the stunning waves and flecks of blue at the perfectly round centers of their white shores. He considered asking about the similarities between William's eyes and Mabel's, but couldn't find the words to do so. "Is she your wife?"

"No."

"No? She is incredibly secretive, I'll have you know. And so are you, Colonel. Secrecy is one thing that I will not stand for."

"But," William turned towards the window, protecting his face as he pieced together this answer- nay, lie, that would hopefully sever him from what was turning out to be one of their most disheartening conversations yet, "she is related to my wife. Whose surname is Casey."

"You…" Cornwallis nearly laughed. Although he had suggested it, the idea of such a marriage was absurd, "you _actually_ married a colonial?"

"Yes. And I wish to protect my family. Both of them."

"Do you have any documentation, Colonel? Where is your wife now?"

William shook his head, "I cannot say, my Lord. I haven't seen Annabelle for a long while. But I intend on finding her. When I do, you will have all of the proof that you need of my kinship with the Caseys. Until that time-"

"-until that time," Cornwallis interrupted, "Mabel rides with you. Now go. Disappoint me again and you can forget this accord about your... family... ever happened."

…

The night brought many glimpses of Marigold's gradual plummet towards death. Because Annabelle related to her both physically and spiritually, the dreams caused her just as much pain as they caused William. As she ventured from her lowly forest hideaway and into her new life with the militia, dreams of Marigold, William and the town that Waterford was bound to become dismantled her focus. Still, she longed to know more about her counterpart and her fate.

The answer that she sought came one night as she dreamt on a cold patch of ground in Old Spanish Mission. She had witnessed a handful of intimate moments between William and Marigold. At first, they seemed like an assault on her innocence, but the love and curiosity that she had in her heart for William was all the remedy she needed. She felt every touch and kiss that he gave Marigold as if they were intended for her alone. These moments were always tender and comforting for Annabelle and rarely erotic. It is for that reason that this dream wasn't shocking for her.

They spoke casually to one another in the pastel yellow bathroom. The gentle steam aloft in the air combined with the smoke that spiraled from the end of a shortened incense stick indicated that they had showered and were readying themselves for the day. On the counter in front of them, several brown vials of essential oils glistened in a row. William sat, with nothing but a towel around his waist while Marigold's naked form loomed behind him.

"I know I have been cross with you lately," said William, turning away from the mirror and tilting his head sideways so that the edge of his face pressed against his wife's bare breast. "And I am sorry."

Marigold only shushed him and continued to massage several drops of lavender oil into his damp scalp. His hands rose to caress the slight incline of her pregnant belly. Marigold stopped what she was doing, visibly stunned by this gesture. "She's still too young to kick. You won't feel anything." Her massage moved to his temples, but she could proceed while he was turned further inward. "William? Turn and face the mirror, Sweetheart." Once she realized that the scalp massage her husband had requested was over, she cradled his head, allowing him to rest against her a while longer. "You don't need to apologize, by the way. You should have heard about it from me, not my doctor."

"Would I have heard it from you? Did you even know? And even if you did, Marigold," he glanced up at her for just a moment before returning to the soft sanctuary of her white flesh, "it would have been painful for you to confess it. My anger was unjustified." He paused, only to breathe in the fragrance of her newly washed skin, "As was my siding with your doctor to terminate the pregnancy"

Marigold shut her eyes tightly, pained by the memory of this supposed request. "It would have been easier if we hadn't named her. If we hadn't seen the wonderful, beautiful girl this baby is destined to become."

"I know," he held her closer, "sometimes when I'm afraid, it comes out as anger. There is no word for… malnourishment?"

"Anorexia," Marigold stated in a quivering tone.

"Yes. There is no word for anorexia where I come from. Knowing that you were fighting that battle alone and now that you are with child… I… I'm so afraid that I might lose you."

"That isn't going to happen." She stepped away from William and placed a few drops of lavender into the diffuser by the sink before capping the bottle. With her left hand hanging slack at her side, William grabbed hold of it and laid her own hand over his chest.

"Feel your heartbeat, too, my love."

Almost immediately after pressing her hand against her heart, Marigold looked confused. "Mine is so much softer than yours."

"Yes. They used to converse and now yours is only an echo," said William solemnly.

"Why?"

"I was cross with you after learning about your eating disorder. I made it seem as though you were the one who lied to me. But that was only to mask the grief that I felt for being untruthful towards you," he pulled her inwards, smoothing his fingers over her bare shoulders as he spoke. Normally, his eyes would take every opportunity they could find to feast upon the naked body of his beautiful wife, but not now. Instead, his eyes moved dolefully across her face as he examined her response to his confession. "I learned that there would be circumstances the day that they fixed my heart. If my grief for the nightmares that I inspired during the war continued to flourish, I would pick away at each beat of your heart like the petals of a flower every time that I made love to you. Even now, when I do so much as hold you, I can feel myself consuming your life force like a hungry animal. I am killing you, Marigold."

The tears that were beginning to emerge in William's eyes were too much to bear. She led him back to the safest, warmest place he knew and smiled as he touched his lips to the shallow valley where her breastbone rested. Despite the shortness of their marriage, they understood one another's needs and desires. The relationship, or lack thereof, between William and his own mother, caused him to form this bond with Marigold, even during the early days of their courtship. The echo of her heartbeat was usually comforting enough, but now its growing weakness birthed despair. As his cries intensified, Marigold started to hum and softly rock the vulnerable, unclothed William as if he was her own child. He was content and so was she, if only for a moment.

 **A/N: Sorry for my lack of updates and the briefness of my chapters. Senior year of university (and making sure everything is in order for graduate school) has been kicking my butt majorly. Good news is there are many more chapters to come. I was going to follow the plot of "Only Through Victory" with a few minor deviations, but have something of an alternate tangent brewing. The other way would have been too easy! So, stay tuned and bear with as much as you can. Also, Guest- it is just to save the girls. At this point, anyway. I'm planning a happier and (hopefully) satisfying resolve for this story. But getting there is half the fun! X**


	15. The Possibility of Redemption

He would have stayed nearby and in doing so, continued to steal hourly glances from across the campsite. Even with his eyes shut, William could sense every movement that his daughter produced from behind the white fabric of her tent. He could make out the light, airy sound of her breathing as it mingled with the brash snores of his dragoons. He followed her, but only after she had found peaceful rest. He'd watched her so closely over the last few days, anxiously cursing any threat that Mabel was confronted by- even the low hanging branches that scratched the vulnerable skin on her face as she rode were viewed as wicked predators. He would have remained in one place, listening to the deep breaths of his precious daughter, but there was something deep inside of William's heart that drove him away.

From the moment of her birth, the love that William felt for Mabel was fragmented. He was only now beginning to learn just how deeply that fragment ran. The startling commission that she received from Lord Cornwallis just days prior drove yet another wedge between William and his ambitions. The revealing nature of his dreams showed him that this was not the only time that she pulled him away from his heart's desires.

"I will not blame her," his inner voice reiterated as he rode. Once the glow from the campfire had faded, he felt the cold sting of tears as they filled his eyes. "I will not blame that sweet girl for what I have done. It was I who killed Marigold."

The final image of his dream clouded William's mind against his will, he saw the sterile, ivory bathroom of the hospital morgue where Giselle had sent him to dress and gather his wits. He remembered the clouds of blood that filled the water at the sink. He hadn't realized beforehand just how much blood had soaked into his clothes and skin from merely holding his wife as she bled out in his arms. As the horse broke into a canter, William saw the maze of white hallways with glass windows and blue floors that were so shiny, it almost seemed as though he was racing on top of water. He stumbled to a halt in his memory and threw open the largest door in the hallway, seizing a petite brunette woman in a white coat.

"You should have done your job!" He shouted, digging his nails into the woman's shoulders. "You should have convinced her to terminate the pregnancy when she still had a chance! Now I must raise our daughter all alone," several onlookers approached them, ready to pull him off of the poor doctor, but as William fell to the floor in a tearful heap, she raised her hand, watching him with what appeared to be sympathy. "I don't know who I hate more," his voice shook under the weight of his emotions, "you, myself, or that _stupid_ brat."

The doctor, who was still trying to collect herself after William's assault, grew offended when she realized what he was suggesting. "In all my years of practicing, I've never seen a woman stake so much on the life of her child. Since you are intent on playing the blame game, Mr. Tavington… your wife's willpower defeated me, for that, I am to blame. She was stronger than us both. Blame yourself, too, if you must. But to think such wicked thoughts about a helpless, motherless _baby_ ," as their eyes met, she expected to see some semblance of remorse, but no. William's eyes, tearful and pained were overcome with sheer hatred. "-you would have to be a monster," the young doctor concluded.

…

Annabelle must have walked a quarter of a mile away from camp in pursuit of privacy. If there was anything that would give her identity away, it would be the importance that she staked on cleanliness. Riding with the militia left her sore in muscles she didn't know she had and, more often than not, she was covered in sweat and filth by the end of the day.

The dirt that collected on her face was helpful. Occasionally, she would search the ground for loose soil, work it into her palms and mask her undeniably girlish face with an uncleanly cast- if only to maintain her disguise as a boy for a while longer. But the gritty stick of unwashed skin that she felt on the inside of her shirt bothered Annabelle so much that getting rid of it was worth those secret treks into the hills.

She found a spot in the river that Winter had yet to touch. The water was crisp and cool against her skin and void of any patches of ice like the shallower ribbons of stream that could be found at a higher altitude. In her hands, she manipulated a quickly shrinking bar of soap that she had purchased several weeks ago. Its fragrance filled her nose and mellowed out her senses as she washed.

Her sense of smell was surprisingly dominant every time she dreamt of William. He had welcomed in Marigold's keen interest in aromatherapy and seemed to be receptive to the calming effects that she believed each note of fragrance to have. The soap that she had selected the last time that she was in town smelt faintly of lavender and rose. Both perfumes were linked to memories that stretched back long before the first time she and William spoke, and yet, she now associated it with those private moments that he and Marigold shared in their sweet home.

She was still unaware that William witnessed those dreams, too. Therefore, she didn't know that he had made the same associations as she. As the lavender and rose danced its way into the cold air like a ghost, it lured an unlikely visitor to where Annabelle was bathing. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her chest as she waded in the shoulder-deep water. Remaining still seemed to aid her against the cold. In her mind, she imagined that it was his strong arms, pulling her in and protecting her. His name had barely escaped her lips when she became subconsciously aware of the interloper who was standing in the woods, aiming his musket right at her.

"It's you," as he lowered his weapon, William's mouth moved into a charming, sideways grin, "my angel."

She should have been thrilled to see him, but Annabelle was too startled to emote. Instead, the tried her best to protect her modesty from the intruder. "Look away!" She demanded, reaching for the damp articles of men's clothing that she had left to "dry" on stony riverbank.

"Come here, Annabelle" William coaxed, refusing to redirect his glance. He dismounted and removed his coat. The startle that he could see growing in Annabelle's eyes prompted him to explain this gesture. "Take it. You need something warm and dry or else you will catch your death."

The poor girl remained, half-submerged with her arms across her chest. When she didn't move, William drew nearer, extending the meticulously tailored red coat that was filled with his warmth. The same handsome sneer moved across his face as her slender, white form emerged into the cold air. As much as Annabelle wanted to protest, to inform him of how ungentlemanly he was being, the comfort of the coat only grew it its appeal. One subtle glare later, and she was inches away from him, covered only by her long, damp hair.

William wrapped the thick, red fabric around Annabelle's trembling frame and held her tightly until her shaking subsided. Her frigid body against his ignited the terrible memory of his dream. She was just as fragile, just as cold as Marigold had been as he held her lifeless form to his breast. But she was the same lively, energetic Annabelle who had captured his heart. Feeling her life force radiating from inside his embrace brought him a sense of renewal. She was alive and she was his and he would do everything in his power to keep her from harm. "Did you truly believe that I was going to hurt you?"

"I don't know," her voice echoed against his chest. "There are two sides to you and I can never tell which one I am facing."

"What are you doing out here all alone?" Their comfort with one another increased quickly, unnaturally. It was as though they had both slipped into another pleasant dream. "And at this hour? The woods are a dangerous place, Annabelle."

She retreated from his arms, just long enough to take in the lovely face that she had dearly missed. His eyes weren't how she remembered them at all, but dull and red and filled with sadness. "I'm afraid of falling asleep again," she confided, somehow certain that they were fighting the same battle and that he would understand. "I'm afraid of what I will see. When I'm out here, I feel in control of my life, that is all."

William removed the glove from his right hand and with great gentleness, circumnavigated her face. Both were momentarily captivated by this tender voyage of his fingertips. The coat remained unbuttoned and loose, Annabelle could feel the warm fabric that he wore against her unclothed skin. "I didn't see anything," William lied, stealing a subtle glance at her anatomy. To prevent this from happening again, Annabelle moved in, placing her head just below this throat. "I have some dry clothes in my saddlebag. They're too large for a tiny little hummingbird like yourself, but are better than nothing."

Two lies in a row. But Annabelle didn't seem to mind. "I'm really not in as much peril as you're making me out to be. I come here all the time." As William's hunt through his saddlebag began, Annabelle drew the edges of the coat around her body like a large robe. She was so petite that the coverage that it provided was halfway to her knees.

"What were you afraid of seeing if you fell asleep?" He asked, still intent on playing her 'rescuer'.

"Does the name 'Marigold' mean anything to you?"

He could feel his heart exploding, bursting with pain from within. "Yes," William replied, deep thought shading his restless eyes, "because it is your own. Annabelle," he forced himself to smile, "a rose- or in your case, a marigold by any other name would-"

"-She died, didn't she? I woke myself up before it happened, but everyone knows that you can't die in your own dreams."

"You should dress yourself," the pain on his face was becoming more and more defined, overcoming any confusion that he might have had from learning about their mutual dreams tenfold. In truth, his heart had always known of this connection. "There is someone back at camp who has been longing to see you."

"Your kindness is truly unsurpassable, Colonel, but I-"

"Please," he placed the warm, dry clothes in her hands, "please, dear Annabelle, call me William."

"Very well, _William_ , I can't simply vanish without a trace. Let alone travel from a rebel encampment to-" she shut her eyes, seeing her mistake immediately. When she recovered, Annabelle saw the sheer confusion (and interest) on William's face.

"A rebel encampment?!"

She considered running, but knew that in the dark of the night, her feet would become lost and ultimately carry her back to the comfort of Old Spanish Mission. She knew what William had done to Benjamin Martin's son and though she had full confidence that he could fend for himself, he would be helpless if the militia opened fire on him without the assistance of his dragoons. It was fight or flight at this point and Annabelle grew even more vulnerable to the cold as she forced herself to remain in one position.

"Are they far?" His voice lowered to a deep, formidable growl. "Are they?! Are we alone right now, Annabelle?"

"Yes, we are alone." Her pretty brow furrowed as she pulled the edges of the coat around herself a second time.

To her surprise, William drew her in, balancing the surface of his forehead against Annabelle's. "It matters not," he whispered. Happening upon Annabelle so soon after dreaming of the loss that he had suffered, and could suffer again, made him fear for his loved ones over his career, "let us abandon the subject and never speak of it again."

Her narrow, icy fingers caressed the side of his face. She hardly knew what to say. "I always knew you were a good man. But I simply cannot-"

"-classifications of good and bad mean nothing to me. I am merely doing what is best for my family," slowly, he severed himself from their embrace, "now dress yourself. I have a plan to remove you and," he extended her a weighted glance of confirmation, "our daughter from the dangers of this war. Once and for all."


	16. Tea with Tav

It wasn't long before Annabelle noticed just how frequently William's moods shifted. He'd promised her safety and had successfully marketed and sold his ability to keep her comfortable and happy both during and after their ride against the bitter winter wind. But he was clearly frazzled, clearly uncertain of whether she would agree to the conditions that they were going to discuss once she was dry and warm.

Despite those indiscreet glances that she caught him taking at the riverbank, he now resigned to openly stating his respect for her modesty. If she hadn't dreamt of him so constantly and witnessed in full effect the gentleman that he was capable of being, she would have believed his cordiality to be merely for show. Especially after seeing the shelter that he'd decided on providing her at this ungodly hour.

"The room is for you," he told her as they crossed the taproom of a small, obviously British-owned inn, "I shall only stay long enough to discuss our agreement and will be by to collect you in the morning. Are you comfortable with this?"

Annabelle inhaled deeply. He was being terribly mysterious. Perhaps it _would_ be wise to take his company in smaller does, after all. To make matters worse, there wasn't a rebel to be found within a ten-mile radius. She felt terribly out of place and the disapproving glances that each weary, seated redcoat extended to William as they passed the bar only added to her discomfort.

"Is something wrong, Annabelle? You seem rather on edge. I can order some tea to be sent up to your room, if you would like."

The faintest smile found its way to her childlike face. How terribly British to believe that tea was a solution to every ailment. Also, and perhaps most childishly of all, Annabelle thought that having a cup, thread and tag to fiddle with would allow her to fidget and escape any difficult subjects that may lie ahead. At least, that is how she had seen Marigold interact with her tea in modern Waterford. "That would be nice, William, thank you."

"What's your poison? Green or black?"

"Uhm… peppermint?" she grinned, shyly. Her only real encounter with tea was peppermint leaves from her father's garden steeped in boiling water, but she was much too embarrassed to say so.

William's smile widened more than it had all night. "Peppermint it is!"

The room was exactly as William had requested it, containing warm blankets and a hearth that he ordered the help to tend to right away. Once the autumnal shades of the fire were rolling and Annabelle was situated in a modest white night gown that William had also added to his tab, they took their tea by the fireplace.

"My plan is very straightforward, but that doesn't mean that it will be easy to set in motion. Voyages out of the colonies are expensive and in high demand at war time. Furthermore, to journey to the safety of one of His Majesty's ports and acquire livable conditions once you've landed will require paperwork. And a respectable name. I have the majority of the income from my commissions set aside and I would like my family to receive a fair portion of my salary as it is earned. And, of course, all of my accumulated wealth should I perish in this war."

"A respectable name?" Annabelle's eyes dropped to the cup in William's shaking hand. He was just as anxious as she and this fact didn't make her feel better in the slightest.

"That is not to say that 'Casey' is a poor name, Annabelle. But it simply isn't-"

"British."

"Well…" it turned out, _he_ would be the one to fidget with his teacup, "yes. To be the wife of a colonel is not an easy life to be sure, but it will keep you safe. And Mabel, through your association-"

"-You ordered my family to be killed, William. And then to turn around and speak so ill of the Casey name-"

"-The hierarchy that you are suggesting is purely systemic. It is not of my own creation. Your safety is my highest priority. I am not seeking to belittle your family in any way."

She set her tea down on the table between them, nipping in the bud several newly born tears. It was painful to speak of her family and even worse to see how poorly William was handling the subject. Or rather, how he was refusing to handle it at all! "How soon?"

"In the morning. Or that is my wish," he frowned at Annabelle's moan of frustration, "You must understand that you are not the only one in peril. Mabel, through nobody's fault but my own, is riding with the Green Dragoons-" the shift in her expression derailed his chain of thoughts.

"Mabel?!"

"Yes, she is in terrible, terrible danger-"

"Oh, I highly doubt that!" She let out a ferociously loud and undeniably 'Annabelle' shout of approval, "I bet she's one of the finest riders you have! You know, I always did like that girl!"

"But she is our girl!" William whispered forcefully, reaching for her open hands. "And you, at least in some form, have already taken my name. Now, it is up to me to keep you both from harm. Don't you see?"

"She's a phenomenal marksman, I assume? Just like…" she grew pensive, "just like myself. And her father, too, no doubt."

"It is different for a woman, my beautiful one," his face softened, even against Annabelle's look of sheer disappointment, "even if you could fight- and believe me, after seeing how agile and clever our daughter is, I'm certain that you are a remarkable… soldier, as well," he paused to take her in. She was just as beautiful, just as darling as Mabel. "How can I make you understand what a treasure you are to me?"

"By removing yourself from harm's way, too," Annabelle said simply. "I've seen what your career has done to you. The man that I love is not the tyrannical Colonel Tavington, but the sweet, gentle husband who confessed the guilt that he felt to his wife after plucking a flower from its stock in their garden," she nodded. "You've had those dreams, too. I know you have. I've witnessed every moment between you… between us. And I know-"

"You haven't," William led her hand to his lips and kissed the porcelain flesh at the base of her wrist before clutching it to the side of his face. Annabelle merely caressed his hairline as much as he would allow. Slowly, his grip tightened and his second hand reached out, inviting her in for a complete embrace. His face had reddened to the shade of his coat by the time she was in his arms. The words of his confession were raw and broken, still he managed to recount his final moments with Marigold. As his sorrow grew, Annabelle led his head to rest against her beating heart. "I truly believed that she would return to me if I remained by her side. Even in the chapel as I whispered my final words of love into her lovely, flower-laden hair; I held on to the hope that she would awaken. But she did not. And then, tonight, I found you. Please, dear Annabelle, please don't resent me for wanting to hold on to you with all of my strength and never let you go."

She repositioned his head, just long enough to place a soft kiss on his brow. Then, she returned him to the sanctuary of her breast. It should have felt unnatural for a girl of nineteen to console an older, stronger man in such a way, but she had learned from Marigold what William required when he was distressed. "I shall only resent you if you don't allow me to hold you with that same strength. Come with us. Come with your family. Your daughter," her embrace tightened, "and your wife."

He surfaced, just long enough to behold her face, the natural blush of her cheeks, the slight upwards slant of her tiny nose and the faintest glisten of love in her innocent green eyes. He would have kissed her, in truth, he was planning to, but a new surge of emotion stifled this gesture. "I am so afraid," a small, but mighty tear traced his face like a shooting star, "I am so afraid of failure as a soldier and now, as a provider. To resign would be an ultimate failure. My victories will bring you a life of renown. Perhaps one day, we will return to the colonies as land owners-"

"-But wouldn't you have surrendered all the riches in the world to have Marigold return to you? Earlier tonight, you spoke of what you would leave behind if you," her voice softened, "if the day should come that you are not victorious in battle. I would rather live in poverty for the rest of my days with you and Mabel by my side than die wealthy and alone. You looked very happy on that farm."

"The farm?!" He sneered.

"Yes, William. The farm." When she realized that he wouldn't be swayed, her eyes dropped to their hands, which were still linked so tightly that they were trembling.

"You do not love me wholly," Annabelle heard William say.

"I love the man beneath the facade," she whispered in response. "Everything else... I am still struggling to understand. It's hard to truly love something that you don't comprehend."

"Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife tomorrow even if I refuse to resign? And, in the place of my resignation, I tell you in full confidence that I am fraudulent and weak?"

She looked up at him and let out a boisterous albeit lovely chuckle, "That is by far the worst marriage proposal in recorded history!"

"Well," he very nearly beamed, "to be fair, no proposal of marriage should ever contain an ultimatum which I'm quite sure you are arguing in favor of."

"It's an ultimatum either way! Mine just happens to make more sense because it ensures a full and happy life for both parties! At least now I know where Mabel's stubbornness comes from-"

"Is that so?!" His eyebrow arched. "I think it's a case of… what's that absurd 21st century Waterfordian expression… double whammy!"

"That's not exclusively Waterfordian, William. But it's certainly Gisellian!" She stifled another laugh with the back of her hand. "Didn't it pertain to having more than one shot of whisky within a sixty second timeframe?"

"I believe so. And the time Moxie devoured my socks _and_ shoes when we went with her and Jake to the theatre."

Annabelle fell back into his arms, reveling in the sensation of his hands gliding across her shoulders. "It's still so astounding. How the two of us could simultaneously dream of the world that Mabel came from." Her thoughts could go one of two ways and, as usual, she chose the more pleasant route. She looked up at William, smiling with more beautiful brilliance than he had ever witnessed before. "And how despite all of the centuries that we have between now and then, you and I share moments- happy moments, with the exact same rapport and that feel just as natural and sweet as the ones we shared when we were-" she reclined into his warmth once more.

"Married."

"And courting," her smile widened, "and engaged. And just… together. It gives me hope. That perhaps what we are living right now is a second chance. Not only for us, but for Mabel, too."

"There aren't many farms in the Caribbean," he whispered, resting his cheek against the top of her golden head. "But there are plenty of professions for a former soldier, I am sure." He allowed Annabelle to leap out of his arms. Her hair, which was almost entirely dry, billowed outwards from her round face, which was alive with the most joyous expression. It warmed his heart just to know that it was he who made her so happy.

"Truly!? You truly mean that you will go with us!?" Annabelle all but sang.

"It will be a difficult maneuver and may even take a while to process given my rank, but if it will make you happy."

When he rose, Annabelle leapt into his open arms, jumping slightly like a giddy schoolgirl, "Thank you, William!" She cried, burying her face in his strong chest, "Thank you."

 **A/N: No, Mabel hasn't fallen out of the story. She'll be back (and back to her usual shenanigans, perhaps even along with Thomas) in the next chapter. As always, thanks so much for reading/reviewing/not giving up on this piece. X**


	17. Subtle Regrets

The parchment felt foreign and unnatural in Annabelle's hands. Her heart swelled as she handled it, but not with the joy or hope that she believed its contents would bring. Their names had been scratched into the paper deeply, with all the weight of their mutual anxiety. She could feel their inscriptions on the other side of the page against her fingertips as William lifted and situated her at the front of his saddle. It was going to be a long ride, several hours max and she could already tell that most of it would pass by in silence. The ceremony, if you could even call it that, was strictly contractual. All other formalities had been stricken down. After all, it was the paperwork that William needed for his plan to come to fruition.

"You look very beautiful today," he tugged affectionately at her long braid, hoping that this playful gesture would alleviate some of the tension before their journey began.

Annabelle forced a laugh that was just loud enough for him to hear. She'd had two choices when dressing that morning; to remain in the nightgown from the inn or to change back into the clothes that William had leant her. Choosing the latter made the most sense to her since they would be riding, but her attire had garnered a discomforting response from everyone that they had passed that morning- especially their priest.

"I promise you, Darling," William continued, "someday soon, I will give you a proper wedding. One that is as lovely and as sweet as you are." As she clutched the scroll to her heart, he laid his gloved hands across hers for only a moment before occupying them with the reins.

"My father is going to kill me," she muttered as William coaxed 'Bellamy' into a canter and Annabelle grinned, realizing that she hadn't known the horse's name beforehand. "Or he'll kill you and have my punishment be to clean up the mess." The wind that his laugh created brushed lightly against her neck.

"Tell me about your father." This request was doomed to go unanswered from the start, but they had to talk about something. Tempting as it was to retreat into their own thoughts, no marriage should start out in chilling silence. "Is he anything like you?"

"He is," Annabelle nearly shouted over the thunder of the horse's hooves. "Very much so."

"I asked about you, you know. After you vanished from Waterford. I was given little information, except that the schoolhouse belongs to your family and that your father gave you his post after enlisting." Silence. "You must be very worried about him."

She didn't know if she should be flattered, outraged or simply shocked to hear him speak of his "enemy" with such a tender tone; so instead she settled on a simple, "I am." Once William appeared to have dropped the subject entirely, Annabelle's restless mind fell on a question. "What would you think if Mabel married someone unannounced?"

"I'd fear for the fellow, of course! At her fury. Not my own. She can be quite… confrontational? Aggressive?"

"Hot headed. Like her father." The tiny kiss on the side of her face that William granted her following this comment was exactly what she needed.

Although he wasn't afraid to hold her close for the benefit of having her near, William was exceptionally sparing with his affection towards Annabelle. Perhaps that is why their "wedding" had been so unsatisfying for her. Anyone who had witnessed their walk to the church in that tiny loyalist town that morning would have believed that there was no warmth or attraction between them at all. They were merely a strange pairing of a statuesque redcoat and a lively woman with a peculiar skip in her walk who was nearly swimming in large, secondhand men's clothes. Furthermore, if anyone in the establishment hadn't known what the ceremony entailed, they probably would have guessed that it was something along the lines of one party selling a barn to another. It was _that_ informal and rushed.

"You should tuck that under your coat," William suggested as they neared a riverbank, "we must ford the river and the ink may get smudged." He didn't cross until he knew that she had obliged.

Annabelle could tell that William was intent on riding without stopping. The nearer they drew to camp, the more his nerves started to get the better of him. Something was bothering William apart from the expediated nature of their wedding and by the way that he had spoken about their daughter, she was beginning to understand that it was separation anxiety. Combined with his imposition of the subject of Solomon Casey, Annabelle pieced his behavior together in the silence spaces between their conversations. William had truly started to identify himself as Mabel's father.

"She's alright," Annabelle ensured William as Bellamy's canter transitioned into a sprint, "she's probably the toughest dragoon you have." He ignored her, digging his spur into the horse's side. The ground was dusted lightly with crystals of ice but even their slickness was no match to the powerful chestnut warhorse.

"I need to focus," William lied, "this terrain is a bit challenging." And Annabelle fell silent for the final stretch of their journey.

A humble row of tents, nestled upon a ground of frosted, fallen foliage came into view. William dismounted when they were several feet away and headed towards the one that was the smallest and the most isolated. He didn't even bother to assist Annabelle, which would have been gentlemanly. But she was forgiving, if not, a bit irritated by his ever-shifting moods.

"You won't find her there," Bordon's low voice boomed from across the campsite. As he approached them, they could see that his arm was in a sling and his left eye was ringed by a dark shiner.

"What the devil happened to you?" Facially, William appeared to be disgusted, but his voice had an undeniable tone of amusement to it. Several others stirred from their tents, but remained put. Not so much out of the fear of William's inevitable anger, but out of the appeal to continue laughing at the misfortune of Bordon.

The badly bruised soldier gave Annabelle a slight nod of recognition and, as ever, she failed to choke back a laugh. After giving the intruding woman a well-deserved glare, Bordon gestured for William to draw nearer so that he might whisper something in his ear. "She bit me. That revolting little shite actually _bit_ me!"

Annabelle threw her head back, releasing a second boisterous laugh into the cold air. The puff of steam from her pink lips lingered and swirled between the strange trio.

"No. I believe she did far worse to you, Bordon!" William very nearly chuckled before his usual sternness wicked the life from his glistening eyes. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know, Sir. Nor do I care. And if you are planning to enlist another," his one working eye scanned Annabelle and her clothing with disdain, "urchin, I will be forced to speak to Lord Cornwallis again and-"

"-You will do nothing of the sort!" Interrupted the increasingly hostile William Tavington with a shout. Though he did not unsheathe his blade at this time, he did reach for it. "I order you to tell me Mabel has gone at once!"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Bordon shook his head and gestured to the bitter landscape.

"Then ask around, you dolt! Just because you were too preoccupied to look after your fellow soldiers, like you were trained to do, doesn't mean that the others were so negligent."

Annabelle intervened with a gentle pull against her husband's arm. He reached for her hand rather roughly and began to prepare for another ride. "Waterford, perhaps?" She asked brashly, unhappy with how she had been very nearly dragged across the rough terrain like a ragdoll. "You said that she was employed by Cornwallis before she started riding with you, perhaps she is-"

"-We are all employed by Lord Cornwallis!" Bordon interrupted before making to stride away. He clearly wasn't taking well to Annabelle. This was likely due to the similarities that she shared with Mabel. "Sir, when will this parade of ignorant, badly dressed colonial women end? Mabel was a pebble in all of our boots, yours included."

"You will find her and return her to the fort. I will take my _wife_ " the emphasis on that word caused the burly redcoat to turn partially white, "to Waterford and search for Mabel along the way."

"But Sir," he directed William to his side and his low baritone dropped to a whisper, "what about The Ghost?"

"Sometimes," any trace of warmth of kindness that Annabelle had kindled during their time together drained from William's face at the mention of his "Ghost", "one must juggle, especially when they find that their career is on the line. Yes, Bordon, you can consider that a warning. Search for them both." When William looked down, he realized that poor Annabelle's ivory hand had grown twisted and red in his grasp.

"Calm yourself," she whispered, refusing to remove her hand, even after William loosened his grip. "Mabel doesn't fare too well with that fellow, I assume?"

He was tightly locked within the confines of his own mind and far too preoccupied to answer Annabelle's question. Effortlessly, he lifted her feather-light body onto the saddle and climbed on. "She was looking for me," he cursed under his breath, "and I didn't tell her where I was going. How could I? I didn't even know where I was going…"

William's words sounded like sheer gibberish to Annabelle, but she tried to parse them and find some channel to cross. Communication, after all, was the sturdiest crutch that she possessed. "But, if you were Mabel, where would you look first?" She gained no answer, yet again, just a hot huff of his steamy breath against her hairline as they galloped away.

The road to Waterford was recognizable. Annabelle had lived her whole life on its outskirts and knew every characteristic of each pathway that led into town. The trail that William had chosen looked like none of them. "Where are we going?" She would inquire every half an hour or so, but to no avail. Her faithful promises that everything would resolve itself wore so much on William that he even hushed her on several occasions. A fraction of her heart begged her to regret the bonds of marriage that she had so willingly entered into that morning. But Annabelle meditated on the man who she had dreamt of while living in solitude, the man who she held until he was lulled to sleep merely by the sound of her beating heart that very morning. Those thoughts carried her through until he finally acknowledged her.

"Are you getting tired, Sweetheart?" William asked, almost tenderly as Annabelle's blonde head fell upon his shoulder in half-repose. "We should be arriving shortly."

Her weighted eyelids fluttered open as she took in the rural landscape. Wherever they were going, it was very isolated, indeed. Given the amount of times that William denied her such information, Annabelle offered up a new question that had been bouncing around in her head for the entire ride. "I was visited by a ghost recently, too. What is your ghost like?"

"Ridiculous… fraudulent…" William's temperament grew along with his list of insults and he seemed to worsen when his companion followed his example by releasing a deep, aggravated exhale. "Let me be the first to tell you that you were right. I know where our daughter has gone."

"Is that so?" As her eyes adjusted a second time, Annabelle could see a long, flat building between two dipping, vegetated hills. "And how do you know?"

"If you look past that gate, towards the stables off to the left, you can see her horse. Right between those two bays. I never forget a horse."

She chuckled lightly at the pride in his voice. "Very well, I believe you. Now, why has she gone here? To complain about that weasel of a brute we met back at the encampment?"

"Possibly. Knowing Mabel, she is more than likely inquiring for Bordon's position. She tried that on me once before. But I was far more forgiving of that overly-ambitious disposition of hers than Lord Cornwallis would ever be. We should probably save her before something unspeakable happens."

As they rode forward, William freed his left hand and drew his young bride into his powerful chest. He could feel the roll of paper naming her as his own, tucked where it had been all along. "I don't know if I'm ready to raise a teenager," Annabelle confessed aloud, against the warping wind. Despite the decrease in the tension between her and William, uncertainty lingered still. Annabelle had little confidence that she was ready for any of this.


	18. Two Ghosts in One Night

One evening prior…

Mabel was half-asleep the night that William left camp. Every time that she willed herself into partial repose, the nightmare would force her back into consciousness. She focused on steadying her breath and emptying the contents of her mind during those elongated pauses between sleep. She hungered for rest, for those dreamless slumbers that lasted for only several minutes before turning into something else entirely.

The influence that she had on William and his dragoons was noticeable. They monitored the supply lines and kept rebel conflicts at bay with civility and care, just as Lord Cornwallis had ordered. William refrained from his usual brutality to keep Mabel away from conflict- and this came as a relief to his commander. It was a brilliant tactic on Cornwallis' part, but expressions of undeniable malice moved across William's handsome face like ripples upon still water every time he received news of his "Ghost". That atop the pain that he endured with each premonition of Marigold's and, in turn, Annabelle's fate destroyed William and altered the relationship that he had with his daughter for the worse.

Mabel used to find comfort in knowing that her father was near. She would listen to his feet move across the dampened, wilted leaves of fall and count the paces that he took across the campsite. "Twenty steps away," she would reassure herself, "there is nothing to fear because my safety is only twenty steps away."

On this evening, she didn't suspect that William, her only real ally in the encampment, had temporarily abandoned her through nothing more than the persuasion of a dream. Like her father, Mabel's dreams were telling. She too could be convinced to venture aimlessly into the woods by their command. But that terrible, recurring nightmare extended a warning. As she focused on the billowing white fabric above her head, a familiar presence entered the space followed by a wordless order to remain still and to listen.

"Your time with your father is coming to an end." Although Thomas' words should have been unwelcomed, they washed over Mabel like a comforting embrace.

The spring that she made into an upright position caused the faintest shift of motion in a nearby tent. Bordon, more than likely. He was a light sleeper. Or rather, his intolerance for Mabel and the noises of her frequent restless nights compelled him to awaken and take note of yet another incident to report to her father. She normally wouldn't have cared, but the marks against her were piling higher and higher, so she decided to remain as silent as possible. "Thomas?!" Her voice was hushed and her eyes of pale blue sharpened as they adjusted to the low light provided by the moonlight as it bounced off the surrounding wintertime mist. "How can you say that? Fa and I have hardly spent any time together at all!"

"You've been having nightmares," the voice replied, cryptically. "Haven't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Mabel refused to stretch back out on the ground and become comfortable again.

"Talking about them with someone can make them go away," the innocent, almost playful tone that she had come to adore returned to his voice. "I'm here because I know that you are feeling afraid and alone."

"No," she shook her head and smiled only slightly, "you're here to be a jerk. You know the nightmare is about my father and I know that you, like just about everyone else, aren't particularly fond of him."

"Are you certain that it was by his hand that-"

Mabel signaled for Thomas to quit talking. Not because those words were painful to hear, but so that she might revisit the scene that had embedded itself so deeply in her mind. It was true that hadn't spoken of it and secretly longed to confide in someone. "The battlefield is blurry," she struggled, "I know that there are others around us, but I can only see his face and it is filled with such hatred. Like it is every time that he hears of another one of the Ghost's ambushes. It doesn't change until after the cold, sharp blade has moved through my stomach and out my back. Then and only then, do I see a hint of regret on my father's face."

"And that is all?"

"And that is all," the recollection caused a change in her nerves, but Mabel remained unconvinced that it had helped her in any way. "It means nothing to me," a second appearance of sound from the outside world prompted her to lower her voice, "I trust my father. And don't bring up my shoulder, Thomas. You know as well as I that he wasn't in the right mind when that shot was fired. He isn't all bad, in fact-"

"You're right," he interrupted, "he isn't all bad. He is working to remove you and Annabelle from harm's way. I know you. I know that you will try to stay and fight. So, let me be the first to side with your father on this issue."

"I'm not in harm's way," instead of allowing her frustration to get the better of her, Mabel laid back on the thick blanket that she had spread across the cold ground. She grinned coyly, "How many centuries will it take for you men to let go of your pathetic social construct of patriarchy? Yes, we're still working through that crap in the 21st century."

"I have limited knowledge as a ghost, but I can still sense impending danger. You learned of Annabelle's fate once. Now, I could be mistaken, but isn't is possible that his impulse to protect you comes from the same place as your dream?"

"No," Mabel responded, more intent on protecting her own case than sparing the truth a passing glance. "Annabelle sacrificed herself to save him on another plane of reality. That reality changed when he and my mother found one another. What happened between them in Waterford was of their own making. What happens next in this world is up to us. Premeditated fate has nothing to do with it. Furthermore, there is no scenario in the entire proverbial realm of possibilities that would lead to my father running me through with a sword," a noisy laugh that she would soon come to regret passed through her lips. "It's absurd! Almost as absurd as what you are suggesting! Abandoning my duties as a soldier is as good as treason. When I commit to something, I commit to it fully and I am the last person who would ever demonstrate disloyalty to-" the slushing of boots against the damp ground outside cut Mabel's tangent short. Not a second later, a new and unwelcome guest tore into her tent.

"Treason? Disloyalty?" Bordon mocked her words from between his teeth and pulled Mabel forcefully from the warmth of her blankets. He could feel the muscles in her arms tense and harden as he searched the area for whomever Mabel had been talking to. When he was unsuccessful, Bordon dragged her outside. "What large and dangerous words to be spoken by someone so petty and insignificant."

She could have worked up a story, some sort of cover for what Bordon had heard, but Mabel knew that he had watched her week after week like a hungry tiger, eagerly awaiting an opportunity to attack her. She chose instead to fight back. She clubbed her bare ankle against his shin several times before hitting his knee, which only barely buckled under impact. The only other option that she could find that would lead to her immediate release was to bite down hard on any bit of exposed skin that she could find. This came in the form of his ungloved hand. His grip weakened just long enough for Mabel to free one arm and take a swing across his face.

As Bordon nursed his deeply reddened eye, she spoke. "I know you don't like me. I've seen you watching me, looking for something valid to complain about. Someone as nosy as you can hardly deny that every choice that I've made up to this point has been in favor of the dragoons, Lord Cornwallis and His Majesty. I am not a traitor, Bordon. You, however, are a shitty eavesdropper, an even shittier interpreter and a fucking idiot for challenging _me_." Spoken like a true teenager. And a true Tavington. With an elaborate roll of her eyes and an obvious refusal to pack or think through her actions, Mabel made her exit. "I'm out of here!"

Originally, Mabel planned on returning to camp before sunrise. Taking rides to clear her head was common although they were received with some distress from William. He preferred that she stay close, but the conversation that she had shared with Thomas, the lingering impact of the nightmare and, childishly of all, her father's lasting loyalty to Bordon tempted her to ignore his wishes. She rode, undisturbed, for a while before she learned that Thomas hadn't finished speaking his part just yet.

"So, you grabbed your horse and forgot your boots," he teased, "you always were a strange one."

Mabel was still upset about her quarrel with Bordon, but the charmingly flirtatious tone that Thomas managed to maintain a firm grasp on, even after death, always managed to save her from any pain. "I'm going back. I just need to give that… that… baritone… weasel-goblin time to simmer down and return to his tent."

"And you are dreadful at insulting people. A baritone weasel-goblin?"

"You saw him!" She retorted defensively. "He checks all the right boxes to be considered a-" they repeated the newly coined term in unison and laughed lightly.

"It's mildly funny the third time around." Thomas "embraced" Mabel from behind with the breeze-like caress that is common in ghosts. "And just think, if you leave with Annabelle, you'll make your father happy _and_ you won't have to worry about that buffoon ever again."

"It just seems so cowardly. Also, this may sound alarming to you, but being a soldier is the only other thing that I've been good at other than dressage. It keeps me busy and my mind away from missing my godparents and Buttercup and… you. I mean, let's be honest, Thomas, you're not exactly a constant presence in my life. If I give up and leave the colonies, I'll be right back where I started in a way. Annabelle will be with me, but it will be just like before when I only had one parent. Is it too much to ask that I have them both?"

"If you can be severed from the career that you've become so passionate about, maybe your father can be, too. Annabelle is just as thorough at negotiating as you are."

Mabel shrugged. "You should take lessons from us both because I'm still not convinced." As she proceeded further into the forest, their conversation tapered off. It wasn't long before she got the chilling feeling that Thomas had given up and vanished. "Are you still with me?" After a brief silence, he replied. Mabel didn't jump, but her horse spooked and threw her into what appeared to be the edge of a large marsh. Once he was certain that she was unharmed, he surrounded her with his warm laughter. "Dammit, Thomas! You grew up around livestock, too. You know how easily horses scare!" She splashed a stream of frigid water in the direction of his laugh.

This was the moment of levity that Thomas had been waiting for. Indeed, he intended on telling her the truth of his murder. Since he was given limited time with Mabel during each visitation, he found himself searching for the gentlest way to inform her. She was often troubled, often weighed down by her cares. If Thomas could make her laugh and forget about the cruel world that she had been thrust into for just a moment, perhaps it would soften the impact of his confession. "It's safe to say that you are having trouble trusting your father lately?" He started, warming her as best he could with his windy, transparent limbs.

"Random!" She stood on her tiptoes, searching for where her horse had run off to. "Shit!" The animal was nowhere to be found. With a tremble, she wrung out the lengths of her brown ponytail and shook the mud off her bedclothes as best she could. "I lost my mount and it's all your fault!"

Clearly, she was too distressed for any added pressure. Before he could construct an authentic apology, he saw a lovely grin move across her face followed by the loud, musical laugh that she had inherited from the Casey bloodline. "You're all muddy," he chuckled.

Her heart grew light in her chest, lighter than it had in weeks, nay months. "It's like you're still here," her eyes scanned the dark, swampy perimeter. "Like the day we fell down that muddy hill in the woods. And you told me that you loved me," although her voice broke, all that Mabel could do was laugh at this memory. "Where are you?"

"Right where I've always been. Even when you can't hear me or feel me. You _are_ being looked after. Now, do we search for the horse or do we return those pretty feet of yours to the comforts of your nice, warm boots?"

It was difficult to tell what Mabel wanted merely by looking at her expression. Her eyes, which were usually clear and blue as shallow waters glazed over and grew dim. "Where are you?" She repeated as her laughter reached a lull. Thomas asked that she close her eyes and Mabel followed this order, eagerly. She could feel the gentle stream of air intensify, pulling her down. Further and further, until she reached the ground. The breeze took on a new form the moment that the earth gained her back. It was then that she could feel the formation of a palm and five cold fingers wrapping themselves around the edge of her face. They seemed to warm, to become more human and animate as they pressed against her scalp and combed through her hair. Mabel opened her eyes, only once and the sensation was gone. There was nobody there, holding her, at least until she shut her eyes a second time. "I've been so alone and so afraid," she whispered into the emptiness. "Don't leave." As if on cue, those words of sadness and pain were silenced by the tender pressing of his lips to her mouth.

"Never," when Thomas finally spoke, his breath transitioned from being very cold to very warm. He seemed to cradle her and hold her tight, causing sparks that had never before been lit to tickle and numb the inside of her stomach and chest. She pulled him closer, initiating what turned out to be an intense kiss that was uncommon for the youthful, innocent pair. She convinced him, merely through touch, to part his lips and make way for her curious tongue.

"What are you doing?" He asked, startled by this gesture.

"By the looks of it, I'm attempting to make out with a ghost. I guess my classmates were onto something when they said I was batshit." Mabel thought aloud, still consumed by the alarmingly human and tactile feel of being held by her lost love.

"Make… out? I don't know what that means."

All that she could do was laugh. When he was alive, and they were together, she would often forget how many centuries separated them. Nobody her age in 21st century Waterford had never held such fluid conversations with her. As the soft touch of his lips migrated across her nose and forehead, Mabel wondered to herself if this connection, this defiance of death and the workings of time that she shared with Thomas was anything like what her parents experienced.

"Love had made it so," was the explanation that Giselle had used when Mabel inquired as to how and why her father found his way to Marigold's side. As she reiterated those words in half-voice, she wrapped her arms around him and found that he was with her in full form. She was aware that the last time she opened her eyes, he was nowhere to be found. But Mabel knew that he could vanish at any time and she didn't want to regret turning down the opportunity to see him again.

Cautiously, she allowed the moonlight to cast its glow across her eyes. Her surroundings grew less and less blurry and she could see the features of the boy she loved taking form. The flesh on his face was as smooth and warm as she remembered it to be and even in the darkness, it possessed the healthy glow of life. His eyes grew joyful and bright the moment he realized that she could see him.

"You're here! You're really here," she fought against her tears out of fear of having him vanish. "Please tell me that you're here to stay." But this occurrence was just as mysterious to Thomas as it was to Mabel. The confusion and lack of confidence dominated every corner of his face. "What can I do to keep you with me, Thomas? I'll do anything."

His finger moved along the bridge of Mabel's freckled, upturned nose. "You were the first girl I ever loved. And I can tell by how awkward you are with men," he smiled adoringly as her nose and mouth wrinkled into a scowl, "that there weren't many boys in your life before me. Love had made it so… you said so yourself."

"Now I don't even want to return to camp," Mabel said lowly, "I want to stay here with you-"

"In the mud."

"In the mud," she confirmed with a laugh, still taking him in. There was no evidence of a wound on his chest. He was just as unharmed and new as he was on the aforementioned afternoon that they spent together in the woods months prior. As she sat up, Mabel discreetly moved her hand against his heart and was momentarily discouraged when she couldn't find a single beat.

"Look at you! You are absolutely filthy," Thomas smiled, "perhaps it's better that you stay with me. You'd be ill-received by those cleanly redcoat friends of yours."

Feigning offence, Mabel stood upright, scooped up a handful of cold, dripping mud and thrust it across his face and clothing. "You were saying?"

"I was saying," he tugged lightly on her arm, causing her to plummet to his side. Not a second later, she was in his arms once more. "You are in no condition to report. Because you are wearing muddy long johns… and… are very, very beautiful. Despite being completely mad."

"You have a pretty weak argument there, Thomas," she beamed.

"And you kiss with your _tongue_. Who does that?!"

Instead of continuing with their chain of playful insults, Mabel attempted the kiss again. This time, Thomas was more obliging. She led him backwards, towards the ground and continued to search for any trace of a heartbeat as her kisses grew deeper. "I saw it on a movie once," she mentioned the first time she surfaced for air.

"I don't know what that is, either."

"It's sort of like a play," Mabel half-explained, lowering her head to rest upon his chest. "This can't be real, Thomas. If it were real, your heart would be beating against my ear. Maybe it's useless to try to rationalize, but-" the weighted noise of approaching footfalls caused them both to stir. She held onto Thomas with all her might, somehow knowing that any invasion would bring an end to the fantasy that they had entered into. There was nowhere to run, the trees surrounding this area of the swamp were sparse and thin and the terrain of pointed rocks and sticky mud would surely slow their flight. "I love you," Mabel whispered, desperately hoping that those words would make him real, not only to her, but to all the mortal world. But when the figure, a tall man dressed in burly clothes, presented himself, her arms fell slack. Thomas had vanished, leaving her alone with the intruder.

"I found the source of the noise," his mouth produced a white cloud of steam as he spoke. "Children. As we suspected. Or rather," as the man stepped into a revealing moonbeam, Mabel realized that she knew him, "one child." His eyes, just as charming and bright as his son's warmed as he spoke to Mabel. "Are you alone, sweetheart?"

"Yes," was the one word that she chose to grant the smiling, friendly face of Benjamin Martin.

"That's strange," he reached out his hand and when she accepted, he lifted her from the mud, "I could have sworn I heard _two_ voices. And one of them was…" it pained Mabel to see him struggle and to know that perhaps it was his son's voice that he heard an echo of in addition to her own. She remembered Benny Martin from her childhood. He was always exceptionally kind to her, even after her strong disapproval of Tommy Martin grew to be common knowledge.

"No," she looked down at her stained attire and very nearly blushed. There was little explanation for what business she had in the marshes at that hour. Surely, he'd think her mad if she didn't compose herself. "Just me. And my horse. Who spooked and ran off that way."

"After throwing you into the water, I assume?" Benjamin removed his coat and, trying to be as gentlemanly as possible, surrendered it to the damp, shivering girl. "Thank goodness you made such a racket. I might not have found you. Where were you headed? And in such a… well-"

"In my pajamas? With no shoes?" she exhaled loudly. It was tempting to go with him. She glimpsed so much of Thomas in his father and those subtleties numbed some of the pain that she experienced when Thomas left her side a second time. But given what Mabel knew of Benjamin Martin, she also knew that a rebel encampment was the last place she should be. Her mind worked as quickly as it could. She knew how to find her camp from Waterford, so it was for those directions that she inquired.

"I thought you looked familiar under all of that grime! My family's land isn't far from Waterford and we have many friends in that town. You are-?"

"I'm a Casey."

"You're a Casey…" he looked pensively towards the dark waters. "One of my sons was very friendly with a Casey, not too long ago," Benjamin started to gravitate away from the sloping "shoreline" and towards a faintly defined path. "That's being modest. He was completely smitten with her. Mabel was her name." The blush that warmed her face spoke for itself. She wanted nothing more in that moment to know what Thomas had told his family about her and Benjamin could see this desire right away. "You're Mabel, aren't you?" Upon her nod, his face grew severe. "You should come with me. My camp is just past those trees and we have a fire that you can warm up by while you and I speak. I think you deserve to know what happened to my son."


	19. Of Cliffhangers and Drunken Birds

Not long ago, William told Mabel that there were certain floodgates in her mind. She would have to strengthen them if she wanted to dam her emotions in the line of duty. Desperately, she hunted for fragments of his advice on how to remain still and emotionless as she heard Benjamin Martin say those words. Her eyes fell to the ground where two large great danes were curled at their master's feet. The shadows and sounds of the surrounding waters and trees were magnified, each pant from the dogs was a tiny thunderclap. Though she appeared to be composed on the outside, the inner workings of her body were churning and knotting themselves around one another, tightly. Her heart pounded louder and louder, as though it were suffocating and crying out for help amidst the tangle.

"This used to be a safe place," he proceeded, comfortably seated in one of Lord Cornwallis' stolen furnishings. His words were nothing more than an echo to Mabel's ears, void of any and all content. "But as long as that butcher… that _monster_ is on the prowl, I'm afraid there is no guarantee of safety for innocents such as yourself. That is why I would like to personally return you to Waterford at first light." She didn't acknowledge or respond to this request. "Mabel?"

Her hands, both of them, formed inadvertently into firsts. Her conscience continued to implode violently. She had been pulled away from her identity as an American woman by her father and foolishly devoted herself to fighting for the losing side in a war that she knew the outcome of, if only for the chance to be like William Tavington for a while. All that she ever wanted from the first time he cradled her, half-heartedly in his arms, was to prove herself worthy of his love. How could it be that the man she modeled herself after every day of her life, would cut short the life of the dear, sweet boy whose soul seemed to have been made with hers in mind? "I loved him," she muttered finally. Her words didn't match the contents of her heart. No, what she meant to say was that she loved them _both_. "I have to leave."

"Leave?" The look of concern that he wore worsened. "I understand that you are upset, Child, but if I were to start allowing civilians to pass through my camp, I would be risking-"

"Your secrecy, yes," Mabel interrupted, "I know more about warfare than you think, Mr. Martin." Although he was clearly puzzled, she was in no mood to explain anything. "Thank you for speaking with me. I know how badly it must have hurt to revisit… everything. I… just… thank you for the warm clothes and the boots. I just have to leave. Now."

"Thomas stopped confiding in me around the time he lost his mother," Benjamin's words halted Mabel's escape. She remained turned, but listened closely. "Even so, he could have talked about you for hours without even stopping to breathe. He told me once what he loved so much about you. Mabel, look at me, sweetheart." As she moved back into view, he smiled at the cast of dirt and grime that still clung to her round, freckled face. "You aren't afraid of a little bit of dirt. You aren't afraid of anything. But you don't have to do everything alone. Stay."

Her weight shifted, her knees weakened. She wanted to leave, first and foremost, to cry in a place that was out of sight. She also knew and understood why Benjamin was looking at her in such a way. She'd seen that look before. It had been worn by Giselle the day that her father died, when they were sitting on the porch together waiting for the ambulance to arrive. It had also graced Annabelle's face when she told Mabel that she would look after her like a mother. She was weary of these 'adoptions', of always bouncing around from one guardian to another.

"If what he has told me is true," she thought, "I will be done with parents forever! I will go deep into the forest where nobody can find me, except for maybe Thomas." Thomas. The name itself made her clench her fists again. He should have told her! Why hadn't he? These questions continued to swim and spin out of control until they made her dizzy.

"My eldest daughter told me that you looked after them while I was… away," he stood and moved towards her when he saw that she was struggling to balance. "That would mean that you knew beforehand that Thomas was gone. I was merely trying to be merciful, to aid in your healing and to warn you of the danger that his killer brings." He attempted to seize her shoulders, but Mabel slipped out of his grip. The friendly dogs swarmed in to console her and Benjamin shooed them away before crouching beside her. "Justice _will_ be served. I will personally see to it that this devil is sent back to hell where he belongs."

"The Colonel?" Mabel asked without looking up, afraid that her eyes would give too much away. There had been instances in both centuries where people could tell that she was her father's daughter simply by looking in her eyes. Surely, Benjamin would make the connection once his parental instincts wore off. "The Colonel who rides with the Green Dragoons? Are you sure?"

"The Butcher," he said, simply. "I've heard stories exchanged about him in the villages. He is ruthless, yes, but he has also been weakening, they say."

"He is?" Mabel feigned relief, hoping that such a gesture would prevent Benjamin from finding suspicion the way that she had responded to everything that had been said so far. It seemed to work.

"Yes!" Benjamin gifted her with the most reassuring smile that he could find. "And it is all thanks to his commander. It has been said, bear in mind gossip is not always trustworthy, that Lord Cornwallis discovered his weakness and enlisted _her_ to ride with him. He has no other choice but to protect this new addition. I don't know who she is to him, nobody does, and we have yet to see her personally. But everyone in the Continentals, my humble militia branch included, are out to capture her. That will lure him in." His smile widened. "If you ask me, I'd say Lord Cornwallis is just as eager to be rid of the snake as the rest of us are! So don't you worry, Mabel," he reached out and gave her sweaty hand the slightest squeeze before repeating his promise that justice would be served.

The following morning…

William was furious. Not only with himself, but with Mabel _and_ with Annabelle. He was aware that she was trying to be helpful with her constant introspections of their daughter's mind, but her talkative nature would wear on anyone after scouting the countryside for several hours.

"We'll make for Waterford next," he announced, shifting Annabelle's weight into a more favorable position at the edge of the saddle.

"Splendid," Annabelle trilled, "it's so refreshing to see that you are finally taking my advice!" She could tell by the low grumbling in his chest that her husband was about to retort and cut him off by beginning to hum a pleasant tune.

"We are heading to Waterford because that is where I intend on dropping you off!"

"What a way to start a marriage!" She threw her hands in the air, very nearly swatting William across the face in the process. "Tossing your wife here and there like a sack of oats in a stable! Since we have a ways to ride yet, I'd like to remind you of that wonderfully progressive arrangement that the two of us had in the future. 50/50! Right down the middle, you prepare dinner and tend to the dishes one night, I prepare dinner and tend to the dishes the next. Mabel has a hole in one boot, I mend it and put you on deck the for when the second boot begins to show wear."

"Very well," William sneered from over her shoulder, "I've been completely silent for the past two hours, listening to _you_. May these next two hours be your turn to be completely silent."

"Does that mean that I'll have the pleasure of hearing what is going on in that pretty little mind of yours, Colonel Husbandton? Because I truly am very, very curious."

"What have I done?" He cursed beneath his breath.

"That's a start! Let me guess! You're upset because you've gone and married a damned parrot and you're doomed to hear it talk and squawk until the day you die… or finally cave and throw it in a fire pit?"

"Or until the day I stick the parrot in a box and ship it to the tropics, as is my intention," William paused to give her braid a loving stroke.

"No, no, no. That is not what we discussed at all!" An aggravated sigh was the only reply that Annabelle gained. "You told me last night, specifically, that you are going in the box with the parrot and the bumblebee. Also, I misspoke. 'Parrot' simply won't do. I strongly prefer the nomenclature 'hummingbird' because I hum a lot and am severely scatterbrained!"

The silent treatment hadn't worked earlier, but responding to her while she was rhapsodizing only added fuel to the fire. She rambled on about how birds can sometimes become inebriated when eating fermented fruit and explained, step by step, how to make the origami hummingbirds that Mabel told her about. This went on for a good half an hour until she replaced her usual medium of words with humming.

"How many centuries will it be before Adderall and Ritalin are invented again?" William removed one hand from the reins to massage his forehead momentarily.

Annabelle eagerly pounced on the opportunity for conversation. "Your dreams are just as in-depth as mine! How interesting! You have a great memory, too. I forgot what those things were called. Poor Mare wouldn't have been able to construct a single lesson plan without those little miracle workers. Didn't she even call them her 'little soldiers' once? Ha!"

"She did, yes." He drew in a deep breath. If anything, he wished that those dreams were less specific. Especially towards the end. If only Annabelle's hadn't cut off so soon, maybe she would be careful _not_ to speak to William about Marigold.

"Did you see the episode," Annabelle started, trying her best to fuse 21st century lingo with the outrageousness of their shared dreams, "where she sat you down at the piano and taught you that song? What was it called again?"

"It was… something about 'Carolina in the Mornin'…"

"YES! _Nothin' could be finer than to be in Carolina in the moooooooooornin'_!"

William groaned as she continued making up the words and melody to the rest of the song. It sounded remotely like the original for the first couple of measures, but trailed off into atonal mess with outlandish lyrics about drunken birds towards the end.

"Annabelle," he pleaded as they approached Waterford, "I am going to strangle you with your braid if you don't hush." He was a little more than half-serious, but had to work very hard to keep from smiling as her song grew louder and more obnoxious.

 _"_ _The birdie ate a burry that was sorta grey and furry in the mornin'!_

 _He flapped his pretty feathers and his feet felt kinda tethered in the mornin'!_

 _He took a little stumble and he landed in a jumble in the mornin'!_

 _The birdie started snoozin' as he swore of all his boozin'…_

 _At least until the next moooooooooornin'!_ JAZZ HANDS!"

Red-faced and pained from restraining himself from either laughing or throwing her from Bellamy's back (or better yet, both), William shushed her a final time. "That… was… truly a very delightful song, Annabelle. Heavens, how can someone be so… carefree under such trying circumstances?"

"I'm just doin' like my daddy learnt me!" She exclaimed with pride.

"All of Waterford will surely be pleased to know that their teacher has returned to them." They shared a small laugh before William's tone turned serious. "Now, there's no way in hell that I will be able to keep you and Mabel safe if you continue to run off. Do you understand?" He told her as they trotted towards the schoolhouse that Annabelle had specifically asked to be taken to instead of her home. She didn't say (or sing) anything in return, alarmingly, and took her time dismounting alongside the apple tree. "I will return tomorrow. Hopefully with Mabel. In the meantime, I suggest that you ready yourself for the voyage." Though he didn't bother to get off the horse's back, he did give the edge of her face a subtle caress before riding away. "Please look after yourself," a faint look of adoration thawed his piercing eyes, but he willed himself away from extending any further sentiments to Annabelle.

"You are coming with us, aren't you?" She knew that she was being ignored again. "William?!" It was no use, he shot off at a speed that was intentionally too great for her to match.

The ride out of Waterford hardly gave William the relief he needed. His paranoia increased as he rode and the voices in his head grew significantly louder than Annabelle's had been. Mabel was a strong girl, but she was as good as handicapped without her horse. He'd taught her how to be a soldier, but left out how to fight and fend for herself out of his desire to be her safety. His line of sight gradually lowered. His eyes skirted the trees and hunted through openings in the tall grasses. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was no longer expecting to find her alive.

"There must be more to her disappearance," he said aloud but the only recipient of this information was Bellamy. "Something that Bordon knows, I wager." And so, it was to Bordon that he decided to ride. He didn't want to think any more about Annabelle or the poor excuse for a wedding and now, a first parting, that he had given her. He didn't want to think about how he had failed Mabel as both a father and commander. Bordon was by no means a comfortable subject to give his attention to, but he was the last person who saw Mabel and the terms under which they had collided surely had its complexities.

The Dragoons gave up their sorry excuse for a search hours before William arrived. He expected that they would disappoint him, of course, and didn't bother channeling any animosity towards them and their shortcomings. Wilkins pestered him for several seconds with a recount of where they had searched along with a made-up duration in order to sound official.

"What now, Wilkins? Do you expect me to be impressed?" William brushed past the young Loyalist without so much as a glance. "I require Bordon." When Wilkins said nothing, William spun around and gave him a menacing glare before inquiring with slow and precise wording, "Where the hell is he? And everyone else for that matter?"

"Well, Mabel kept us up late, Sir. So…"

"I see," he glanced at the dispersing of unsaddled horses and unopened tents. Apparently, the search that he had called for was even sorrier than he had previously suspected.

"But we did look where I told you for as long as I told you and then we returned-"

The gravitation of William's hand to his musket was all that Wilkins needed to see in order to back down. One threatening glare later, the furious colonel made his way to the tent where Bordon was sleeping happily and soundly.

"Get out!" William hissed, very nearly grabbing the resting man and pulling him outside. "Now!"

Bordon sprung to attention, "Colonel Tavington, Sir. Good morning."

"Try late afternoon, early evening," he gave Bordon a rare sarcastic smile.

"I assume you found your… sister-in-law? Or whomever that vile little demon is to you?"

"No," William's smile remained intact and it was, quite frankly, the most terrifying thing Bordon had ever encountered in all his years of service. "Follow me. Out of courtesy for your sleeping comrades."

They headed out, far past the trees that the horses had been tied to. Before they were completely out of sight, Bordon extended a quick, empty glance to Wilkins who remained baffled at the center of the campsite.

"You can spare me the melodrama, William! If you were trying to scare Wilkins out of his boots-" a quick but exact smack across his already wounded eye caused Bordon to become silently obedient to his superior's guidance.

"When I am in this uniform, I am Colonel Tavington and Sir, you fool. Unless of course you want the others to learn the sheer hilarity of _your_ first name. Is that clear?"

Strangely, this seemed to catch his attention. "Yes, Sir. I think we're far enough from camp now, don't you?"

William sensed uneasiness in Bordon and lapped it up like honey. To anyone in the woods who might have overheard this conversation, it would have been borderline comical to hear the many melodious cadences of William's voice, pulverizing and belittling the deep, rich tone of Bordon's. But from the beginning of the interrogation, William was the victor. The mouse had been caught and he was merely having his fun before finishing it off for good. "If you were to scream, would the rest of the men come rushing in to save you?" Silence. "I thought as much. Besides, you have a secret that needs protecting. Consider this a favor, _Boris_ Bordon."

"If you are talking about what Mabel found while she was trespassing in my personal space, Sir, the harm has already been done. Cornwallis already knows, thanks to her, about my year-old desire for a transfer."

William stopped and turned, moving in on his subordinate like a hungry beast. "But does he know the reasoning behind your request? He's a clever man, I'll openly admit that. But he is not that clever. You _are_ my second-in-command, Boris." Slowly, his eyes revealed the shared secret that could only form after years of friendship and trust. It appeared to Bordon as quickly as a blink before it was gone, and he was faced with the monster his dear friend had become once more." That will never change, do you hear me?! Even if Mabel was successful in having you moved from my command to New York or Massachusetts or wherever in the hell you wanted to be commissioned. Do you honestly think a sixteen-year-old girl would fully replace you? Let alone, fully understand why you wanted to leave?"

"New York," he looked to the ground. "Don't pretend that you understand the complexities of-"

"Complexities?! Hardly!" William looked offended. "The complexities don't lie within you, but in what you have done. I know everything about you. Every sprocket and cog in that simple little brain of yours aren't only entirely at my disposal, but I alone know how to translate and explain how they work and what they do. Mark my words, I will expose and humiliate you if you don't tell me everything that happened leading up to Mabel's disappearance."

"She was… talking in her sleep-" His boots began to shuffle, rather uncomfortably, against the leafy forest floor.

"Why did you take her jacket?"

The motions of Bordon's feet grew less fluid, informing William of his confusion. "Excuse me?"

"Her riding jacket. The black one. That was how this whole stupid mess between the two of you began, is it not?"

"That was two week ago, Sir…"

"How long ago it happened is hardly valid. She was wearing it in the place of her uniform and this offended you?"

"Not as much as her having a uniform in the first place offends me!" Naturally, William didn't buy in. "I asked her why she was so improperly clothed and she started to complain about how restrictive her coat is and how much clothing for equestrians will improve over the next two hundred years. It was ridiculous. You can ask anyone else who was on patrol with us, she is loud, she is brash, she is condescending and disrespectful and what bothers us the most is, we shouldn't have to be around her!"

"But you are," he smiled, quietly relishing in the pain that he was putting Bordon through, "You confiscated the jacket…"

"Yes. I stowed it in my saddlebag, placed said saddlebag in my tent later that night, returned the jacket to her after she complained to you about it… and something of hers must have fallen out of her pocket before the exchange. That is what she was hunting whilst looking through my possessions. That is how she found the letter in the first place."

William's eyes narrowed. He remembered Mabel's complaint, but not the new addition to this story. "What fell out of Mabel's pocket?"

"Jewelry," said Bordon flatly and with great annoyance. "Another perk of riding with a silly woman!"

William seemed to understand what this entailed and his smile warmed so that is was no longer sadistic, but loving and nearly sweet. "That must have been her bee. The one that her father gave her."

"Could you do me the courtesy of at least telling me who she is to you? And why we have been cursed with her presence? Everyone knows that if it weren't for her, we would have found The Ghost-"

William's face reddened immediately, and his voice built itself into a mighty yell. "We are not discussing The Ghost!" With that off his chest, he seemed to simmer down. "We are discussing Mabel. She found the letters and decided to have them sent to Cornwallis. Which I will reprimand her for, just so you are aware…"

"Yes. And ever since, I've been so angry with her. She was the gnat swarming around my head all these weeks. It's safe to say that she finally bit me. I'm working on something for Cornwallis, too, a compilation of everything that she has done to endanger her fellow officers. That is what I was doing last night. I heard her words myself. She's undermining us, somehow. I know that you don't trust Wilkins because he is a colonial. Could you… could you meet me half way and tell me why it is you trust her?"

"That shiner makes you look even stupider than you already are!" William crossed his arms. "What did you do to her last night?"

"I asked her why she was speaking of such things. Of treason and disloyalty. As I removed her, gently I might add, from her tent, she attacked me."

"I've known you long enough to know when you are lying, Boris. Was it the other way around?" Bordon's silence on the matter was all the William needed to throw his first punch. It landed right across the bruise that Mabel had left him with. "You attacked her. Didn't you? Didn't you?!" His victim fell to the ground, but William continued to swing and block any incoming blows until he was given the answer that he sought.

"Yes," he cried between impacts. "I attacked her."

William was fully aware that he would normally be no match to his muscular opponent. That is why he beat down so aggressively on the injuries that Bordon had already received the night before. Fury disfigured his face as the hailstorm of fists pounded down on the guilted. "Do you know where she went? Answer me!"

"No." Blood poured from his nearly-broken nose and into the crevices of his teeth. When his one good eye was strong enough to focus, Bordon realized that William was holding his musket mere inches from his face. "I don't know where she went."

"And that is the truth?"

"That is the truth."

"Don't lie to me. You lie to me again, you die. If I wanted you or any of my men dead, you would be. We are going to go back to camp where all your companions are alive and well. And it is because of me. I decide your fate, not you, not Mabel and especially not Lord Cornwallis. You don't trust me, do you?"

"I trust you." The musket was raised a second time, causing Bordon to cave. "I trusted you. Once."

"When?"

"Before the fall of Charlestown. Before the three of us grew so ambitious as soldiers that we forgot about the theatres and the pubs. Before-"

This memory caused William to cringe. "Before when? Before I made a name for myself? Before I outranked you!?"

Bordon remained unafraid in the face of the musket. "Yes."

"Then I should like to see you commissioned to New York. A trustless man is as bad as a traitor."

William moved away, just far enough for Bordon to sit upright and wipe his bloodied face. "I already know what I will find in New York," his flesh stung at the touch of his hand, but he cradled his head, anyway. "A grave. Only a grave. And the memory of the gaping wound that some silly girl named Mabel managed to lay bare for all the world to see."

"Nobody knows about that wound but you and I," William said with a softness that surprised them both. "Love only seems a glaring thing because it shines so brightly in our minds." With no shortage of roughness, he assisted the wounded soldier in standing upright. It would be clear to the others that some damage had been done, but Bordon was still recognizable and able to speak. The damage could have been far worse when you consider who inflicted it and what was at stake.

"Did he know?"

"It's doubtful." He had to look away. Seeing Bordon so defeated was too much to bear. "But then again, he did come to expect it after a while, didn't he? If he did know of your affections, it wouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary. John Andre believed that everyone was in love with him."

 **A/N: Wooo! Multiple cliffies! I hope these two (almost back-to-back) chapters help to remedy my recent shortage of updates. It's terrible, but I'm not sure how much I'll be able to post with finals week approaching, BUT this story is going to be shown more love and commitment over Winter Break for sure. As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, and just sticking with this little labor of love. Even when it gets super intense… and when Annabelle goes bananas. Lol. X**


	20. Stay the Course

New York

 _Prior to Charlestown's fall to the British…_

The British term for a frequently visited place is a "haunt". There is some irony to this chosen word, of course, because each night that William walked from the barracks to the pub down the street, he felt like less of a man and more of a ghost. There, he would listen and observe from his favorite corner in the cavernous, brown taproom. The space was overflowing with sound and song, but the noise that surrounded him blurred into a pleasant buzz that successfully concealed the curses that he made into the bottom of his earthenware mug. His was a nearly nameless face amidst the legions of soldiers who passed through town and while the anonymity had its perks, he longed to be remembered by the select few who knew his name as something other than the seasick lad who punched Major Andre in the face on the voyage from England. But what? What sort of a name would Cornet Tavington make for himself before returning home from the colonies?

This question, among others, were carefully considered as the ale softly relaxed and contorted his mind. One evening, when he was still relatively new in town and had yet to blend in and become part of the pubs proverbial "furniture", the drink coaxed him back to the same trapped and panicked state of mind that he had entered into on the ship. In short, William needed to punch someone. Amidst the sea of petty gossipers, one voice always managed to stand out. No matter how low and hushed those words became, William could hear the complaints that Captain Bordon made about him as though they were a multitude of booming screams.

"He'll be the first to die in battle, to be sure," Bordon told the others at the bar with half concern and half mockery, "in a few year's time, Tavington will be a fine soldier, but for now his technique is no match for his ambition."

"It's a pity, too," Andre added, sitting his pretty arse on the stool beside his friend, "he doesn't have enough time to improve. To my understanding, our cavalry is-" the appearance of Tavington's hand on the surface of the table brought Andre's thought to a sudden halt. "Ah, it appears the little guppy has lost his way and is asking the sharks for directions. Piss pots are down the hall and to the right."

Of the group, William was the only sober one and he decided to use this to his advantage. He politely asked Bordon, who already had the grand total of five drinks under his belt, to step outside. The second that the burly captain obliged, with a stumble, I might add, the punches began to fly, giving the smaller of the two soldiers an edge. William had no intention of taking this conflict into the street, his plan was to humiliate Bordon in front of the cluster of high ranking officers and it seemed to work. That is, of course, until Andre intervened by pulling his pistol and aiming right between William's fiery eyes.

"That is enough, Tavington. You've had your fun," Andre could see out of the corner of his eye that Bordon was managing to pull himself up just fine and gave William his full attention, "I can read you like a book, soldier. If you're looking for a title for yourself other than an impulsive, cowardly pipsqueak who throws random punches at inebriated men, may I suggest… being less of an impulsive, cowardly pipsqueak who throws random punches at inebriated men?"

It wasn't so much this comment that cut to his core than the seemingly immediate recovery of Bordon, who returned to his seat and ordered another drink while ignoring William as if he were nothing more than an intruding child. "Captain Bordon?" He further imposed, garnering several sighs of annoyance from around the bar. "Titles are an interesting subject, don't you think? Certainly, I am not the only soldier in the pub who is curious about yours. Why don't you indulge us? How ever did a _loyalist colonial_ , born and raised on some smelly farm in New Jersey, come to rise so high in the ranks? Hm? It would appear the subject of gossip doesn't only apply to," he snuck in a stabbing glare at Major Andre, "guppies like myself…"

"Discipline and dedication," replied Bordon, who didn't even bother to turn, "both of which are foreign to the privileged few who... didn't you… _purchase_ the title of Cornet back in England? It doesn't matter how pampered she may be, all women hit the same," he gave him a quick, sarcastic smile before turning around a second time, "no bruises."

This would be the first of two confrontations with Bordon at the pub. The second time, William waited in the streets until he exited alone and raced in with more aggression and speed than before. He used the butt of his pistol to club the back of his head from behind and it worked fabulously. When Andre observed that this tactic of attacking vulnerable commanders was cowardly, he was correct. But it gave William the results and the high that he wanted, so he didn't pay those words any mind. As his victim lay, barely conscious on the muddy road, William felt a hard pull on his collar.

"Have you no mercy?!" Major Andre shouted in his ear before slamming his back into the side of a nearby building.

"No."

He hovered over William, blocking any and all attempts that he made to pull himself back up. "It matters not how greatly he has offended you, no gentleman would ever kick another man when he is down."

"He's a bloody drunk, Major. He deserves to have some sense beaten into him. I just happened to be the first man to do anything about it."

As Andre lowered himself to William's level, his voice fell to a whisper. "Do you have a family back home? A wife or children? I didn't think as much. Captain Bordon had a wife and a five-year-old son in New Jersey. They were both targeted by rebels just the other day. He returned to find them hanging from a tree by their necks on his property. It's doubtful that there is a trace of humility in you, but if you could at least try to put yourself in his position-" a faint, pained groan from where Bordon was curled up at the center of the street beckoned Andre to abandon William and race to his friend's side.

William continued to watch their dark, backlit silhouettes as Bordon was pulled to his feet. He felt a sensation that he barely remembered from childhood, a subtle weight on his airway followed by the appearance of a single tear. "How trite," William muttered before heading off to mend the torn flesh on his knuckles, "the loss of love would come to be the downfall of the _noble_ Captain Bordon. No wife or child will ever undermine my progress. Ever."

…

The freezing air was no match to the growing warmth in Mabel's face. Her blood pumped louder, chugging through her heart and arteries like the noise of an accelerating freight train. The poorly fitted boots that Benjamin had given her created a mismatched rhythm of thuds and splashes against the challenging terrain. She clung desperately to the hope that this final push of strength would be enough to deliver her from the pursuer and his dogs, but they were so close. She could almost feel the sinking of their teeth and the dampness of their mouths against her ankles. There was no saying what the vagrant wanted from her. A chase? Information? If he was a soldier, he was a militiaman. Possibly one who was out looking for the Butcher's anonymous female companion.

Her instincts reprimanded her for escaping from Benjamin's side with no other rationalization than to be free and under her own command again. The voices in her head that weren't tasked with that angry monologue told her that the man, that gruff and rugged stranger, would not give up until she was dead. After passing through a clearing, they burst into a thick cluster of trees. She dearly hoped that it was nothing more than the snapping of a twig that she heard, but no. The man cocked his pistol, took aim, fired and she fell, expecting to hit the ground, but she never did. In the split second before the prevailing void of death- or whatever emptiness awaited- washed over her, Mabel searched herself for any entrance or exit wounds and found none. All that she could feel was the wind against her face as she witnessed the passage of a large, stony wall in her periphery. Indeed, she had avoided the bullet but only through falling from a steep incline and into darkness.

…

Annabelle was both saddened and grateful when she learned that her students had been temporarily placed under the instruction of Reverend Chelsea. The deep kinship that he shared with her father and his disposition as a friendly and charitable individual meant that he showed leniency towards Annabelle, despite her many peculiarities. He extended only concern for her disappearance and did not reprimand her, like Solomon surely would have. It didn't take much convincing for her to be reinstated. She found that the schoolhouse was close enough to how she left it the night she wandered away from Waterford. Her possessions had been rearranged and the classroom was a bit sparser than she usually kept it. After resurrecting her paper crafts and manuscripts of plays that she had written with her students, she was eager to start teaching again and didn't spare the Caribbean much thought.

"It isn't final. Not yet. I'm not going until I know for certain that all three of us will be making the voyage," she fidgeted with the pencil and paper that was originally intended to be a letter to her father but was turning out to be something that was partly a word doodle and partly a letter to herself. "I also need to inform Father of these significant changes that I've undergone since the last time I wrote. But how will I explain it? How I wish Mabel were here! William would just become angry with me if he knew that I actually have a say in what happens to our… to our family."

All day, she listened for their knock. By the time dusk arrived, her worries doubled. She left the empty building and climbed the height of her beloved tree just like she had for what felt like centuries. The ice that had melted in the warmth of the sun froze above her head. She watched this process into the night. Certainly, she grew cold, but the chill was hardly enough to make her return inside. She believed whole heartedly that William would appear at any time, down the road that they had taken together only yesterday and planned on witnessing the arrival of him and, hopefully, Mabel, firsthand. But neither showed.

The tiny town was so quiet in the early hours of the morning that Annabelle could hear the ticking of its resident's indoor clocks and could mark how long she had been waiting by their hourly chimes. Not ten minutes after five o'clock was welcomed by those clashing, unsynchronized fanfares, Annabelle spotted an incoming rider on a chestnut horse. Her heart sunk low in her chest when she saw that he was riding alone and further still as his attire and less-than-impeccable stature materialized. This man most assuredly not William. However, he _was_ riding towards her and the moment his face came into view, Annabelle realized that she had seen him before and furthermore, he appeared to be relieved to have found her. She also felt a spike of nervousness. The last time that she had seen Benjamin Martin, she was disguised as a mute boy called Will Arden. But there was no turning back now, she would have to face him.

"Miss Casey? This is your schoolhouse, yes?" He gave a small but gentlemanly nod in her direction. "Please forgive me if I am bothering you at such an early hour."

Annabelle's swanlike neck arched as she threw her head back and laughed, loudly. "I am a poet, sir. We never rest!" Her visitor didn't appear to understand. Nor did he seem to have any sort of revelation that she and Will Arden were one and the same. Whether it was her wordiness or the simple fact that she was a woman, dressed in woman's clothes that blinded him, Annabelle could not say. "I've seen you around town, but only on occasion," she lied, trying him. "What is your name, sir?"

"Benjamin Martin," said he, "I am a friend of Mabel's. Your Mabel."

With a violent whip of her long, unbraided hair, Annabelle climbed to the ground. "Mabel!?" She nearly hollered as all other inhibitions melted away, "Mabel has been missing for days, Mr. Martin. Days! Has she been found?"

"She was," he dismounted and faced her, "temporarily."

"Temporarily?"

"Yes. There is nobody to blame but myself. We were heading to Waterford, you see, she told me that my horse was 'riding funny', whatever that means, and proceeded to lecture me on how negligent 'people these days' are towards the frogs in their horse's hooves. She also convinced me that a shoe was coming loose and I paused to take a look, while she took a drink from a nearby stream. When I looked up, she was nowhere to be found. She was wandering aimlessly in the woods when I happened upon her earlier and, as I was searching for her, it entered my mind that someone in her family might be familiar with these disappearances and maybe even know where to find her. Does she run off often?" As he explained what had happened, Benjamin was also forced to see the smile disintegrate on the innately cheerful young woman's face. He expected that she would be troubled by this news- at best, informative, so that he might assist her in bringing Mabel back, but all that he received from Annabelle was the immediate outbreak of tears. "So, this behavior is new for Mabel?"

"No," Annabelle wiped the damp streams from her reddening face, forcefully. She didn't mean to cry and was clearly embarrassed with herself for doing so. "It isn't. It's only that I… that I've grown weary of how fragmented my family has become. No matter how hard I try, we keep breaking apart and scattering in all directions!"

Benjamin placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "I've raised seven children, Miss. If there's one thing I know, it is how to wrangle. But you must help me! Has she brought anything that seemed foreign home with her? Anything that she might use to connect herself with a distant person or place? Better yet, does she have any connections in surrounding villages? She's a friendly girl, I know that because she was a friend to one of my sons. Who else is she a friend to?"

The inquisitiveness of Benjamin Martin was enough to make Annabelle's head swim. She knew about Thomas, having received council from his ghost, herself. She also knew that wherever Mabel was, the ghost was not far off. But she would never speak of such things to a grieving father. Quietly, she agonized over what information to give. William and the Dragoons were a sensitive subject, too. Another question from Benjamin slashed through her conscious regarding how long, if not for her whole life, did Mabel live in Waterford. Again, Annabelle was stumped.

"I _am_ bothering you," he said knowingly.

She shook her head, but Benjamin did not see this gesture. Instead, he was distracted by the opening of the door of the small while chapel across the street. They both looked on as the hunched and ungracefully aged Reverend Chelsea emerged with a billowing piece of parchment in his hand. He called her name and she stepped forward as the two men tipped their hats in greeting.

"I hope I am not interrupting anything," said the old man with a look of genuine concern. "I know that you returned to your teaching only one day ago, Miss Casey. While nothing would please me more than to see you in Solomon's position until he returns, this," he passed the paper to Annabelle, "was given to me by the parent of one of your students last night."

As the page unraveled in her hand, Annabelle saw a poor but recognizable drawing of a young woman who looked exactly like her, save for the darkness and styling of her hair. The notice had been distributed by the Continental Army along with the mention of her crimes- the butchering of innocents under the command of the renegade Green Dragoons. These crimes began around the time of her sisters' deaths, when Mabel was still living under the Casey's roof.

"I don't believe that you have committed any of the crimes mentioned within," Reverend Chelsea continued, "but your resemblance to this woman made a parent upset and there will be many more with the same reaction. You are welcome to stay with me, in the chapel, until the fuss dies down."

Instead of accepting or declining his offer, Annabelle turned to Benjamin who had successfully snatched the paper from her hands. "You are with the Continentals, Mr. Martin! Is that why you are here? To capture Mabel?!"

This name meant nothing to the aloof Reverend.

"There has to be some mistake! How long ago did this filth go public? How far has it spread?" Benjamin shouted, putting his hand on Annabelle's shoulder yet again.

"It's all the way to Charlestown by now. And there is more, Annabelle. Mrs. Rook, the mother who brought this to me, says that she and two of her neighbors saw you ride into town with a redcoat yesterday. As the daughter of my dearest friend, I know where your loyalties lie. There isn't a sinful, murderous bone in your body. I will provide you shelter."

"And I will find the root of this slander and pull it from the ground. _And_ return dear Mabel safe and sound."

The truth, every word of it, took form on Annabelle's tongue. Had she opened her mouth to do so much as thank the men for their offers, she would have released it. She would have admitted the truth of her marriage and the association that Mabel had to the Green Dragoons. But the price tag of the truth was far too high, and she was whisked away to the church in silence, to pray in the attic that she wouldn't have to witness the arrival and capture of her beloved daughter and husband through its tiny window.

…

Any trace of decency that Bordon saw from William melted away as they walked back to camp the previous evening. For the last twenty feet or so, he broke into a lively sprint, halting dead center as he fired not one, but seven shots into the air.

"Gentlemen!" He hollered at the Dragoons, some of whom had already awoken to the sound of his distant confrontation with the unfortunate captain. "I'd like you all to take a good look at Bordon's face. Certainly, he wasn't much to look at in the first place, so multiply how dreadful his appearance is presently by ten and you shall have an idea of how you will look should you disobey my orders again. Hopefully, you are all well-rested. I am breaking you off into two even parties. Now, here's a bit of motivation for you: the party who retrieves Mabel and brings her to Bordon and I will partake in a joyous, inebriated evening at the nearby pub in Three Vines." Although the eager Captain Wilkins appeared to be intrigued, he was the first to voice his concern for the supposed unsuccessful party. "A fine question, Wilkins!" Bordon recognized that menacingly pleasant tone and smile on William's face and shuddered. "Those on the, forgive my terminology, losing side, will be bound and brutally beaten by the victors."

"Everyone?" Wilkins inquired, sifting through the situation for any bit of mercy he could find.

"It seems I forgot to mention the final rule of this exercise," William bore his teeth at Wilkins as he spoke, "the first to ask an idiotic question shall be responsible for deciding who searches with who. A grueling decision, indeed!" His burning, angry face scanned the humbled soldiers like a lamp in a lighthouse. "You will follow my orders exactly or you will be all the more craftily punished. Do not, I repeat, do not disappoint me."

As poor Wilkins assumed the dreadful task of organizing how the grouping of Dragoons was to go, Bordon trailed reluctantly behind William for a second time in the same evening. They saddled their horses without pausing for conversation and rode several miles to the pub at the heart of the predominately British village of Three Vines.

"I've very nearly forgotten the taste of ale," Bordon finally admitted as they neared the small, stony building. "But I don't understand your reasoning, Sir."

William let out a deep groan and stretched backwards in his saddle. He was accustomed to riding long hours but after recent events, he was beginning to show some wear. A rare sight, indeed for Colonel Tavington! "Boris," he reached out and slapped his comrade hard across the back, "shut up!" Those were the last words they shared until they were seated face-to-face at a wobbly table with two foaming mugs of ale in their hands.

"To you, I suppose," Bordon began, the obtrusiveness of his badly beaten face softened a fraction in the low light, "may you have a long and happy marriage to…?"

"Annabelle," William mused, gliding his finger around the edge of the glistening drinking vessel, dolefully. The corner of his mouth flickered upwards in a charming half-smile before he downed a good quarter of his glass. "I should be with her tonight," he took another large gulp, "instead I'm here with you, you ugly halfwit," and another, "did you know that she is a virgin?"

The tiny sip of alcohol that Bordon had in his mouth was quickly airborne and sprayed across William's face. "And _I'm_ the halfwit!? How long have you two been married?"

"Nearly twenty-four hours," William signaled for another drink, "I haven't even kissed the pretty little thing. We made our vows, scribbled out our names and dashed," he made a comical 'running' gesture with his fingers across the table. "So, you best keep wishing us a happy marriage with every sip you take. Why aren't you drinking?"

Bordon drew in another delicate sip. "It stings a bit. From where you split it." He smiled and nodded, indicating that he was pleased with the drink that his "friend "was treating him to, regardless. "Do you plan on making an effort with your wife?"

"That is none of your concern," as his new drink arrived, William practically inhaled it. He stared across the table, partially droned by how quickly he had consumed the alcohol. "In truth, I am a bit distraught."

"I would imagine so! You're a man who regularly takes what isn't yours and when something finally _is_ yours to take-"

"It would be the equivalent of deflowering an angel!" William loudly interrupted, causing several patrons to turn in the process. "You saw her. She is resplendent. Divine," a flood of pure admiration caused his eyes to glisten and warm, "fearless and free. Like the uninhabited regions of this beautiful country. As is Mabel. They are my treasures."

This statement compelled Bordon to become a bit more courageous with his drinking. The way that he understood it, William had entered into some strange courtship with _both_ women. "To say that I am not alarmed would be false. But I suppose you have come a long way since your first day off the ship. And that is most commendable."

It appeared William was still too enraptured with the thought of his family to see the point that Bordon was trying to make. "I'm sorry, Boris," he said after a short while, the stars falling from his eyes, "what were you saying?"

"You've become surprisingly tolerant of colonials. Those minor discrepancies with Wilkins aside…"

"I dislike Wilkins because he is a fool," he groaned. "I dislike you because you are incompetent. And I love Annabelle because she is both as peculiar and beautiful as a nameless flower on a distant and uncharted land. Origins are irrelevant."

"Then to say that it was my own influence-" despite his impending inebriation, William managed to cut Bordon's tangent short with a simple glare. They finished a round without sharing so much as a word. William was about to announce his desire for Bordon to remain in the taproom and await any arrivals of the Dragoons while he headed upstairs for a rest when a moment of bravery caused him to overlook the wrath of the colonel. "Sober up, then go to your wife. If I had given Sylvia the love and care that she deserved, perhaps we could have cheated fate and I wouldn't be the lonesome wreck that I am today."

William looked to the ground, his boots were a blur from heel to tip. "Cheating fate is not a possibility," he managed to slur before walking away.

…

Waterford, South Carolina

21st Century

Jake and Giselle Casey came to expect Tommy's elongated visits to the ICU. Whenever one of them headed to work or downstairs to have a break from the doctors who clustered around Mabel's bedside like vultures; he was never far off or unwilling to stay with their goddaughter for however long she would be without her guardians. As the weeks wore on, so did the hope that Mabel would ever awaken from the coma. The bodily injuries that she received from the riding accident were minimal, but the head trauma and steep decline in brain activity was as good as a death sentence.

"I know that you've been worried," Giselle told Tommy before heading to her latest teaching job at the junior high school, "about the option that Mabel's doctor discussed with us last week. But we have decided to- what was the term that you screamed in my face the other day?"

"Stay the course," Tommy replied, weakly as he placed his hand on Mabel's muscular forearm. "Thank you. I think Mabel would want that, too. To keep fighting until the end."

Giselle gave a small nod before hiding her eyes and walking out of the artificially bright hospital room. Everyone around Mabel had fought vigorously for what they believed she wanted. It was a tug and pull either way. Some days they believed it was undignified to keep her hooked up to a noisy wall of machines while she was poked and prodded like a specimen in a science experiment. The paperwork was printed more than once, but before it had time to cool and dry both Jake and Giselle convinced each other that there was still hope and that she was far too young to die.

When Tommy learned that they were considering ending her battle with nothing more than the stroke of a pen, he drove to the farmhouse and fought for Mabel as best he could. This was the first time he was permitted to see her since the confrontation. She still appeared so healthy to Tommy as he stood there, mindlessly caressing the only patch of tanned skin on her arm that wasn't covered with wires and tubes. The thin flesh of her eyelids fluttered on occasion and her tiny, freckled nose would give the slightest crease every now and then. At first, these ticks brought hope until her doctor explained that they were merely involuntary. The noise of the automated air that entered in and out of her lungs sounded so organic, like it was really her breathing on her own. Each breath brought back the memory of her voice, high and lilting, just like her mother's had been. Every time Tommy spoke to her, he almost expected to hear her reply and he received her breaths as tiny promises that she would respond to him someday.

"You're still in there," Tommy thought aloud as he pulled up the familiar hard-backed chair that he seemed to have spent more time in than his own home. "I know that you are. Even if your godparents or every doctor in the country were to try to convince me that you are as good as gone, I wouldn't… I'd never… I am not going to let anything happen to you. So I don't want you to worry, Kiddo. I've got you covered." Usually, he didn't cry. But merely knowing how close she had been to the end just the other day caused Tommy's strength to waiver. He took in everything from the steadiness of her heartbeat to the warmth of her arm to the soft, pink glow of life that she managed to project even beneath the sterile light. Even now at her most vulnerable, there was no denying the warrior that Mabel Tavington was. "I won't give up on you, I owe you so much after taking your father away from you. I'll fight for you, Mabel, but I need you to do something for me, too and you can go back to disliking me all you want when this is all over. You just have to… you _have_ to come back to us. You know, when your mother died, she passed her light onto you and since you've been away, it's like the sun has fallen right out of the sky. Please don't leave us in the dark."

 **A/N: Two things. One- this chapter moved around from one scene to another like a hummingbird on crack and I apologize for that. I'll try my very hardest to make the rest of my chapters more linear, or at least have smoother transitions. Lol. Promise. Two- I didn't intend in my original outline for Bordon to become a major character in this story. That's the best excuse that I can find since my recent chapters have become rather Bordon-heavy recently. He's a bizarrely fascinating character to watch in the film and I keep finding interesting little nuances about him that are inspiring my personal rendition of him in here. Like the possibility that he might have originally been a colonial because his lines (however few of them) are delivered with almost no trace of an English accent. And Tavington's rather cryptic line, "Another colonial!" It's a weird theory and probably not true, but it's always fun to speculate and extract inspiration from said speculations. I've worked him into the outline for the rest of this story, it should (hopefully) work and am strongly considering doing a spin-off about him, Tavington and Andre sometime in the future. Would that be something you guys would be interested in reading? Thanks for reading- there's (much) more on the way! X**


	21. Wildflowers

You belong among the wildflowers,

You belong in a boat out at sea.

Sail away, kill off the hours,

You belong somewhere you feel free.

-Tom Petty

She had only drifted off for a moment, but that moment was just long enough. Long enough for the fear that had compelled her to remain seated all night at the windowsill in the first place to unfold. In the early morning light, her husband arrived at the steps of the schoolhouse. He knocked quietly at first, whispering her name into the cracks along the doorframe. The volume of those knocks grew with his concern. William had slept off his drinking, but remained lightly effected, tired and parched from his long ride and also, regretful. If only he could see her, hold her in his arms and tell Annabelle how fondly he admired every one of the childish whims that he had dismissed so coldly the other day! As he called for Annabelle a third time, he heard the sound of boots, large and clumsy, the antithesis of his wife's small, white feet in the grass behind him.

He rode past the many images of Mabel in Three Vines and it was not until he arrived in Waterford that William had made the connection. It was one thing to be notorious and sought after, with a price always hanging over his head. But to see his daughter and, due to the strong similarities in their appearances, his wife, in such peril, William was no longer in hot water. The pot was boiling over and scorching his skin every time he dared to move.

"Show yourself!" William demanded. He drew his blade and stood in front of the doorframe, instinctively protecting the mere notion of the precious girl he still believed to be housed therein. "Stay inside, Annabelle," he whispered, hoping that he had been heard.

As was expected, a man, probably the owner of one of the nearby business, approached with his musket smartly aimed at the dragoon's wide chest. "So, it is true," he started, "there's more to the babbling Annabelle Casey, than meets the eye. She always was easily persuaded, but for a redcoat to have her as his whore-"

The reflection of the rising sun projected off William's sword as he swung. That flash of light along with a defensive shot from the villager's musket caused Annabelle to awaken. All that she saw before running in desperation down the wooden stairway and into the chapel, was a bright spraying of blood across the branches of the dormant apple tree. She found no obstructions, no Reverend Chelsea to stop her from running out of the church and onto the lawn. The poor man, who she recognized as Mr. Rook, the father of one of her favorite students, lay partially decapitated at her husband's boots.

It would have been in her best interest to grab William's arm and run while they still had the chance, but she found that she couldn't look away from the violent end that befell Mr. Rook. "What have you done, William?! The Rooks are simple glovemakers. They have a child! They are good, God-fearing people!"

"He took his aim and I was faster. That is all." He grabbed Annabelle by the hand and started to move towards his horse. She was about to demand a better explanation when gunfire surrounded them from every angle. As the noise of airborne ammunition whirred past their heads and bodies, Annabelle felt his grip loosen and saw the downward effect of gravity on his strong frame. William had been shot. "Ride East," he told her as the shock and pain overcame him, "my men will find you."

She mounted the horse, but instead of riding away, she reached for her husband a second time. Just then, a sweltering pain dominated the central region of her upper torso. A faint, agonizing cry filled the air as she fell forward, temporarily drowning in the red-brown river of the horse's mane.

When her hand fell limply from William's grasp, a sudden surge of energy allowed him to draw his musket, pull himself onto the saddle and shoot back, all the while, shielding Annabelle as best he could. The pain from the bullet in his thigh was both radiating and restricting, but he willed it into numbness as they rode, quickly and chaotically through the woods in hopes of losing the men who trailed in pursuit. He was faster, he was always faster and any injury that he might have obtained before and after their escape made little difference. If anything were to trouble William, it would be the uncharacteristic silence of his wife. He would trade an eternity in hell just to hear her voice speaking those words and singing those silly songs that he had rendered trivial just days before.

"I will find a shelter where they cannot find us," he promised, even after the angry mob was lost for good. "I will keep you safe. I will save you."

A tiny woodland home, one that Annabelle would have surely recognized, presented itself to William's eager eyes as they flew through the trees. Had he examined it more thoroughly, he would have seen that the house had been claimed as a refuge for the Continentals. At this time of day, however, it was empty, silent, warm and safe enough to serve the purpose that he required of it. He dismounted and carried his injured wife inside without looking at her, fearing what he might see.

The only source of warmth on the single cot inside was a large pile of discarded clothes, most of which William tossed onto the floor. He placed Annabelle, carefully, at its center and found the entry wound. The hope of reaching the bullet and extracting it blinded him from the truth. He muttered one promise after the other that he would save her, but he didn't receive a response, none of her beloved words, no sound, no breath. His hand moved to the large, red hole filled with clotted blood and as he pressed down on her chest, he found that it was cold and housed not a single heartbeat.

Waterford, her Waterford, the place where her schoolhouse stood, where every friend she had ever known resided and above all, where she was supposed to be safe had turned against her at last. Those simple landowners and clerks feared Annabelle because she was different. They tried to silence her voice because her words traveled boldly, into places where a woman's thoughts should not venture. Despite her waywardness, Annabelle was one of them, she belonged to Waterford just as she belonged to William and all of those pieces working together were too mighty of a wind for the frail, intrepid little hummingbird to fly against. Now she had fallen, never to fly again, never to sing another tune or speak another word. She was silent at last, just the way that her town had wanted her to be.

"Let me save you," William repeated, once then twice, again and again until this demand grew into a panicked scream. His own wound throbbed as cradled her, but it was nothing compared to the pain of holding his wife as he had in all of his nightmares. "I wanted to keep you safe. Now there is no safe place for you or Mabel and it's all because of me. Because I tainted you," he cried, "because I am a monster. I am the one who deserves to die, to spend an eternity in hell. But it seems the hell that has been prepared for me is to endure losing you over and over again."

This was the end of it all for William Tavington, or so he thought. Every teardrop, every plea concealed a vow that he would never kill another man in all his life. The blood of his innocent, beloved Annabelle weighed too heavily on his hands. Now, he would cast aside his arms. Victory was no longer his gospel, no, he would trade it in for an endless and devout state of mourning. Those were the promises that he gave to his virgin wife, that she would never hear and never take to heart.

He had to hold her, to experience the silence that would have otherwise been impossible for Annabelle to produce. Hours slipped by. Motion was impossible, words were, too and eventually, William's mind mimicked her peacefulness. She was wild and radiant through all of her days, now she was merely beautiful and motionless like a flower that has been plucked from the earth. He cursed himself, his mind, his hands, those destructive practices that he underwent. Everything from killing the enemy and their families to the seemingly innocent act of plucking and keeping each new wildflower that he encountered in the colonies seemed a catalog of terrible crimes—crimes that brought about her untimely end.

Early that evening, by fate and fate alone, a blonde continental with a pair of round glasses at the tip of his nose entered the house. "What do we have here?" He asked, moving in to take a better look. William didn't even bother to turn, to defend or even explain himself. At least, until the man spoke again, "Annabelle?!"

"She was attacked in Waterford, because she was with me," William responded, heedless of the danger that he was in. He knew this man's face, inside and out because in so many ways, it was the same as Annabelle's, Marigold's and Mabel's, "You can tell the world that the woman who rides with the Green Dragoons has fallen. I have done countless evils to your family. It is your right, Mr. Casey, to shoot me down. I won't fire back."

It was difficult to say what Solomon Casey was about to do. In truth, he didn't know, either. It was anyone's guess. His hand resorted to vengeance, reaching for his pistol, but not drawing it right away, "Is that all that you require?"

William shook his head. "I know that it will be your impulse to take her home. To rest beneath her apple tree, beside her schoolhouse. But she does not belong there. There are places throughout this land that remain untouched, untainted by greed and corruption. If you could find a place for her where cannon fire can no longer be heard, where the wildflowers grow unaware and untrampled by the soldiers' boot-"

"-You are William?" Solomon interrupted with a broken tone, knowing without confirmation that it was true. Even then, in the cold vacancy of death, his daughter appeared to be welcoming of the strange redcoat. He should have been offended to see her youthful, alabaster cheek pressed lovingly against the enemy's uniformed breast. He should have cursed the way that this man who he had never seen before in all of his life removed the ribbon at the end of his daughter's braid, touching and kissing the ends of her unraveled hair. He should have hated him, his tenderness, his tears, but these soft farewells were sweeter gestures than Annabelle had received from anyone before. That association saved William from his well-earned fate. The pistol was now an afterthought.

Solomon required the same process as his offender. William obliged, feeling empty for only a moment after Annabelle was passed from his embrace and into the arms of her grieving father. He had to see a father's tears to understand his next and truest task. His Dragoons would find Mabel, of that he was certain. Once they were together again, father and daughter, they would flee. He would see to it that they were safe and free, both his Annabelle and his Mabel.

…

It was only a dream. It had to be. What Mabel knew of her mother were limited to those visions that nighttime brought her and to the days that she had spent with Annabelle. As her vision adjusted, she saw a familiar place unfold before her like the pages of a picture book. The interior of her childhood bedroom was familiar to her; adorned with show ribbons, equestrian posters, overstuffed horse plushies and Breyer models representing every coat color and build imaginable. She was seated at the edge of her bed and, judging by the dampness and grass that coated her trousers and socks, had recently returned from her daily ride. She knew that Marigold was there because she could hear her humming and feel the pull of her comb, tugging at a tangle at the end of Mabel's hair. As she tried to turn and look at her mother, Marigold guided her head away and forward.

"You're almost there, Bumblebee," she postponed her humming to say. "You are the only girl I know who can stay mounted all day and still come home with a head full of dirt and grass. Is there something that you aren't telling us? You know, Fa won't be angry with you if you are still struggling with the steeplechase."

This world that Mabel's mind had granted her was intriguing, mysterious. Having Marigold and William with her at the same time was all that she had ever wanted. Riding, when all is said and done, is how she kept their memory alive for all those years. Steeplechase would be the last thing on her mind if both of her parents were with her! No, she would be far too preoccupied making up for missed time to concern herself with setting records and winning awards.

"I realize how hard it must be for you," Marigold continued, only adding to her daughter's speculations, "having a father who asks so much and gives so little. Would you like to know a secret?"

Now that Mabel had her mother's leeway, she was almost frightened to turn and hear what was about to be said. If William truly was the man, the _butcher_ that Benjamin Martin had claimed him to be, would that personality have manifested itself in his marriage? Throughout Mabel's childhood? Had she been so blinded by the devotion that she had for her father that she failed to see the truth? She had a father, a wonderful father. But even now, those memories of the kind man in a soft flannel shirt who used to carry her on his shoulders and teach her the name of every flower that they passed as they strolled through downtown Waterford, was vanishing. Now, those visions fused with the cold, determined warrior that her father was in the 18th century.

Those cares somehow vanished when she took Marigold in. She was older than those pictures, but no less beautiful. The shallow lines on her face deepened as she grinned. The rosy fragrance on her patterned dress sprung into a liveliness that Mabel never fully experienced when she breathed that same perfume in her mother's abandoned closet. She was a happy woman, Mabel could tell. In the depths of those green eyes, there was no trace of disillusionment, no cries for help, no evidence of abuse.

"What secret, Ma?"

Marigold tossed the hairbrush aside and closed her soft, slender hands around her daughter's. "Fa sees himself in you. That obsession with victory, with cheering you on, only matters to him because he believes that it matters to you. If there are other avenues that you wish to explore, anything at all, we will support you. I know he can be intimidating, but you need only talk to him to learn that he feels the same way."

Mabel shut her eyes, trying to comprehend this scenario. She had them both and somehow, she had drifted away from her father's influence and towards Marigold's? The new grudge that she had built up against her father began to fester in her heart. "Why can't it just be us?" A sudden, overwhelming storm of tears built up inside of her. "I needed a mother. It was you who I wanted all along. Not him-," she halted her words, instantly regretting them because they were false and driven by unnatural hate. Confusion took over laced with sequences of memories, both painful and serene. "I have you both? You mean to say I don't have to decide? I can actually, truly have you both?!"

The mess of uncertainty that Mabel had become was surely a cakewalk compared to Marigold. Even if it was only a dream, she would never be able to decipher everything that her daughter had been through. Stunningly, against all projections, all judgements, Marigold smiled knowingly. "Annabelle failed. I failed, too. But you, my little bumblebee, out of everyone who has ever lived, you are the most like William Tavington. He might have saved his name in modern times by what he did for Tommy Martin. But history still remembers him as something else. You will have us. When all of this is over, you will be able to pick up right where you left off; riding Buttercup in the steeplechase, tormenting Tommy Martin, giving Giselle hell for ordering greasy takeout food… the only difference is, we will no longer be there in spirit. The war will claim you both, it has already taken Annabelle. She will be the one to guide you back. You must be brave now, you must rely on the sense of morality that William and I gave you, that is all that is required of you. Save him. Save our name. The three of us will be together again soon. For good, for real."

 **Author's Note: So, it's no secret that this story was dormant for a very long time. If you were following it and waiting for updates, I apologize profusely. While I was putting together Bordon's story (A Loyal Subject), I was also working to devise a way to continue Mabel's story and, of course, other seeds of inspiration were popping up here and there. Mabel Tavington may have been at the back of my mind for a while there, but she certainly was not forgotten. This chapter was insanely rough to write, probably because I have been out of the proverbial saddle (ha) for a while there. Hopefully, everything made sense and will bridge where I left off with the direction that the story is ultimately headed in. More on the way! X**


	22. Parenthood

Captain Bordon reconvened with the Green Dragoons several hours after he and William parted ways. At daybreak, they continued on their search for Mabel. Their efforts were halfhearted, but Bordon began to sense a subtle change in Captain Wilkins. After years in the military, he knew what it implied. The young dragoon was both restless, drained and overcome with both anger and depression. His hands would shake one moment and steady the reins the next, the whites of his eyes wore a red glaze and were permanently widened as he looked out into the woods. Tavington had done this. He was terrified of him and what his fate might be should he fail to return Mabel to their unhinged commander.

"I'm relieving you, Wilkins," when Bordon touched the top his shoulder, the young soldier startled, "there are other lads, no doubt, at our lookout by the river at this hour. I want you to go down there and rest. Tell them that Bordon sent you. Tavington can answer to me when he returns." He gave no nod, no acknowledgement, really, to let Bordon know that he had heard. He simply rode alongside his fellow loyalist for several paces before trotting away into the woods. There was hushed gossip up ahead and he ripped into it without hesitation. "Pipe down!" Bordon nearly screamed, "You are here to follow orders. No matter how ridiculous they may be! I will have no further complications from the lot of you, is that clear? We will find that little shite. Today. Then, we will hand her over to Cornwallis at Fort Carolina and that will be the end of it."

They pressed on in silence for several miles. It was not in Bordon's nature to make a command twice. Nor was it in the nature of his fellow soldiers to question him. When he assumed the role, he wore power well. But Bordon also had a nearly inherent curse of being trailed by trouble wherever he went and naturally, trouble followed him into the woods that day. The ambush had "Ghost" written all over it. Shots rained down from the heavens and were fired from varying depths of undergrowth, obliterating the row of dragoons who were holding up the rear. Seven men total were dead on the ground before he gave his order. To tell them to disperse was his first instinct, but he knew what destruction that might bring.

They formed an outward-facing ring and returned fire out into the woods, killing a handful of Benjamin Martin's marksmen. There was no surrender from the opposers. Several did retreat. Amongst them was a young man who Bordon seemed to recognize from previous attacks. It might have been cowardice, it might have been bloodlust that ignited that same combination of emotions he glimpsed in Captain Wilkins earlier. I'd say that it was nothing more than the appeal of power that caused Bordon to chase after the boy, dismount when he was within reach and pin him to the ground with his blade pressed firmly to his throat. If he could not find Mabel, a lead to the Ghost would be more than sufficient.

"What is your name?" He asked, almost politely. Well, as politely as one might inquire while on the verge of slicing into another man's neck. "Where might I find your commander?"

His dark eyes glistened, nearly in laughter. "A loyalist," he smirked, "I learn something new about you dragoons every day. You hung those children in Pembroke, didn't you? I hope that your children hang, too."

This brand of slander would have seemed typical to any other man, but it unlocked a chamber in Bordon's heart that housed both pain and fury. He felt as though he was sinking into the earth as the memory of that hot summer day in New Jersey consumed him. How his dearest friend, John Andre had held onto his tiny son as he killed the last of the rebels on his property. How deeply the rough fibers of the noose had ripped into the child's neck, bruising and reddening his tender flesh. He did not struggle and suffer long like his wife, whose neck did not break, who continued to kick and fight even after she was pushed from the ledge, no. That boy, that innocent boy who looked so much like his father, loved nothing more than climbing that same tree to catch, study and release butterflies in the early evening, was there one moment and gone the next. It was not for Tavington, Cornwallis or King George that Bordon killed that marksman, it was for Sebastian. Every rebel that he had ever slaughtered since that day had been for his son. Bordon pushed the knife in deeply, pitilessly, seeing only retribution as the colonial bled out.

Once the light abandoned the man's pure brown eyes, Bordon searched his pockets for documents and letters. He knew exactly where to look, against the silent hold of his left breast. That was where Bordon kept as many letters from Sylvia as he could carry. "Gabriel Martin," he muttered aloud, stowing away the boy's letters from his beloved, Anne for later examination. Gabriel's name and bitter end meant little to the others and they pushed forward, hardly knowing what his death had set in motion.

...

A storm was blowing inland from the sea. Gusts of wind rocked the trees outside and blew through the crevices in the house, chilling those indoors. The candle that Solomon had lit cast a lifelike glow on Annabelle's face as he prayed over her. Every time that William tried to leave, he would witness a new shadow on her façade. Playful wisps of air would creep through the window and reposition her hair or ruffle the ends of the long white tunic that he had retrieved for her from his saddlebag. It fell several inches above her knees and remained unstained by her heavily bandaged breast.

Her expression changed occasionally with the light and yet, her brow wore a small and thoughtful line, permanent. He had seen Annabelle make this face before in full, now it was merely a whisper. Of what, he could not say. Dolefulness, perhaps. Pensiveness seemed possible, too. Her death may have been swift, but what she did feel was a cruel and excruciating pain. William revisited the ambush and the instant that she grew limp in his embrace. Her fear for him had overruled the value of her own life. Even now, it seemed, she feared for him. The faintest tilt of those sweet, shapely eyebrows told him so.

"I was away when her sisters died," Solomon said without turning, "gunned down like animals in the Whitley's corral. She had to bury them all by herself. Now I must do the same for her. The other men will be here soon. You must leave before they return."

Despite their anguish and confusion, they reached a consensus that the continentals should see Annabelle. It would end their search. What it would mean for Solomon, neither of them could tell. William knew that it would keep Mabel safe. Just as Marigold had died to give life to her loved ones, Annabelle's sacrifice brought a promise of life to Mabel Tavington, no matter how distant. The same draw that he had felt to his Marigold, he felt to Annabelle. That inclination towards hopeless hope that he could reach her somehow and she would rise again.

"She wrote of me to you?" William followed his feet to her side. He handled the ribbon as one might hold a rosary, meditating on its texture, seeking a channel to divinity through its every fiber and seam. A brief glimpse of his ruthlessness came as he pulled a blade from his boot and cut the ribbon in two. Once this act was completed, his face softened and tears spilled from his eyes. He tied one piece to his rapier, the other to the handle of his pistol so that when the impulse kicked in to take another life, the ribbon would graze his fingers and he would recall, if only for a moment, the peacefulness and innocence of Annabelle and it would stay his hand. "What did she say?"

"Only that you were good. And that she loved you. You must go."

The door to the empty outside world beckoned, but William moved away from it, rather than towards his escape. She was his wife, but only through law. He could have given her so much more. He never ever kissed her. Deep down, Solomon seemed to understand this, that William was not quite ready to leave. He welcomed any repercussions that would come from their lack of haste and stepped aside, giving the poor redcoat a final moment with his daughter.

"Annabelle," his breath warmed her lips as he called her to the surface, "the world was not ready for you, my darling. It did not understand and nor did I. But the empty ache that I feel is too great for my small heart to bear alone. All of the world is aching right now. Come again, let us hear your words in every birdsong and your laughter in every rolling stream. Haunt me always with your sweet spirit and I shall follow your influence." His hand was large enough to cover the back of her soft, golden crown. He lifted her head as he kissed her in tearful softness, with innocence. "I love you. I should have told you. I should have treated you with love and reminded you every moment that we were together." She gave him hope, even then, in that terrible silence, William felt her promise that they would be together again. It was in that painful comfort that he found the strength to rise and step away from Annabelle and into the grey dusk, towards their daughter.

...

Mabel awoke in pain, fading in and out of the dark, forested world of colonial South Carolina. The fall had been so violent that every bone in her body still radiated with each impact of stone and branch and root. Her first response was to cry, not for help, but to release the physical anguish that was churning inside of her out into the world. She recalled that silly lie that she told her secret self before each race, competition and now, before riding headfirst into combat. It was a secret that Mabel never voiced because it sounded so ridiculous out loud, "I am indestructible," she muttered, breathing in the cool night air and turning it to energy in her small, bruised form, "I am indestructible." She was beginning to believe and readying herself to stand when another familiar, ethereal hand rested on her brow.

"Not yet, Bumblebee. Not yet." In her periphery, Mabel could see Annabelle's pale shoulders and golden braid. "Stop fighting so hard. Be still."

Suddenly, the pain boiled into anger. "Look. I need you, Marigold and my father to stop being so parental and let me make my own deci-" during that minor outburst, the gentle ghost had led Mabel's hand to rest against a damp puddle of blood on the side of her head. "Oh."

"It isn't as bad as it feels. But you need to put some pressure on it before you try to stand."

As Mabel exhaled, the need to cry scorched her airways and heavy tears moved into her eyes. "I know how it feels to touch a ghost and I know that they were looking for me. You didn't have to die, Annabelle. Not in my place. Not like my mother did."

Annabelle shushed her with a breezy caress, "You come first," she said, "you come before me and William, too. That is what it means to a parent."

"I don't know if I can love Fa anymore. I want us to be together again. But not if he killed Thomas. He was the only boy that I ever loved. He was sweet and kind and perfect. Even if it is like Marigold said, I don't know if I want a life with Fa in it. I want so badly to forgive him and forget but… can a heart truly forget love?" As each tear fell, it flattened and dried beneath Annabelle's touch. She did not respond, merely hummed the same tune that William did every night to lull her to sleep. Even after the fire stole away his sight and ability to walk, her father would still hold her near and together they would share that sweet melody.

It was a perfect homage to their farm, those rolling hills of wildflowers that she would ride through, the freedom that she felt as the fragrant breeze tousled her hair. Although she gave her heart to that land, she would always return in the evenings to hear her father sing, "You belong among the wildflowers," and her dreams would transport her down the dirt road, through the wall of trees and out across that wide, colorful expansion once more. Annabelle's voice, several octaves higher garnered a similar response. The trees above her head parted, making way for the big, golden sun. She didn't feel the ground beneath her back, but the cool, metal surface of a truck bed. Another voice had taken over the tune. She saw him in profile with the dark, soft head of a blue-eyed infant beneath his chin.

"This land is yours, little William," the handsome wrinkles in the corners of Tommy's blue eyes deepened as they moved to Mabel, "I know, Darling! I am getting ahead of myself. After Grandpa Will and Grandma Mare find a better place to grow their tomatoes and a nicer gazebo to swing dance in every evening like the adorable little old-farts-in-love that they are!"

She had to sit upright, to take in the vision of her son- their son, whose face was pure Martin and whose eyes were pure Tavington. He was just as lively and beautiful as the land around them, as precious as every flower on every hill that would also come to bear those two names of previously sworn enemies. Love poured into her heart and all at once, she understood what Annabelle had spoken of. She was little William Martin's mother, even if he was no more than a dream.

 **Yowza. Sorry to keep you guys hanging for so long! Please accept this intense (and potentially surprising) chapter as an olive branch! To be honest, the Mabel/Tommy pairing almost didn't happen because he was present for her entire youth, but their age gap isn't much bigger than Will and Mare's and at the end of the day, it just kind of… made sense. This story still has a couple more chapters and I've moved it to the top of my priority list for my summer writing. So hang tight, there is more to come! Again, sorry for how long this story was hiatus'd! X**


	23. Time and Tide

Despite his repeated testaments and displays of loyalty, animosity followed Captain Wilkins around every corner. He knew that the small platoon by the river, who Bordon had tossed him to like a discarded handkerchief, would be anything but pleased by his arrival. Company was not in his best interest that night. Solitude, on the other hand, better suited his needs. He was not looking for Mabel. His mind was set on allowing her to perish in the woods and yet, there was the smallest fragment of his heart that harbored both fondness and concern for the little instigator. They were both colonials and bound to South Carolina through Waterford. Assuming she truly was a Casey. Having known Caseys his entire life, Wilkins was almost certain that there was truth to her claim. How she and Solomon's daughter could become so entangled with Colonel Tavington, however, evaded him. Then again, he was anything but the commander that Wilkins had initially longed to serve under. Perhaps he and Mabel weren't so different after all.

Mabel Tavington was not on his mind when he found her. He was deeply submerged in contemplation about another young woman. The woods darkened long before the sky, even in the depths of winter and that black ribbon of river that cut through the boulders and aging stacks of fallen foliage, reminded him of sweet Virginia Hardwick's long, black hair. He remembered laying beside his Virginia in an open field, beneath that same dark firmament. Every strand that cascaded from her crown looped and turned over the ground with the same grace and agility as the waters of the Santee. These days, his loyalties tended towards Virginia and away from his duties. He longed to return to her, but Wilkins dismissed those longings as nothing more than weakness. So, they remained in the painful silence that the deepest desires of the human heart are often banished to.

He saw the red of Mabel's coat first, still and inanimate at the bottom of a deep ravine. From afar, it hardly appeared to belong to a human, just a discarded lump of fabric or perhaps the decaying corpse of another fallen soldier. Wilkins coaxed his horse to where the opening in the earth began and looked over the edge, just for good measure. She was flat on her back with a small puddle of glistening crimson around her head. He would have assumed the worst, but her lips were moving, muttering, as though she was simply talking in her sleep. He did not know this, but she was speaking to Annabelle. The injury looked bad, even from above and the desire to help eclipsed Wilkins' first instinct, to abandon her. It would have been impossible to find his footing on that steep incline, so he rode alongside the trench for several yards until he found a place where the soil was firm and covered with rocks and roots to grab onto. Moments after finding Mabel, her seemingly nonsensical conversation came to a halt. A bit of white linen that had once belonged to a shirt was bunched up behind her head, stopping the blood in its tracks.

"Now, how did you manage to do that, I wonder?" He glanced quickly at the injury before pulling the unconscious girl into his arms. The wound was external, and her skull didn't appear to have split. She was very lucky, he wagered, but continued to apply pressure, nonetheless.

The more that Wilkins moved Mabel, the more her nerves shot to life, making her aware of her pain. As her thoughts blurred, she called out for Annabelle. Then for her father. His arms felt like William's, strong and thick and warm. His embrace and this association were the only things that were keeping her from crying out in pain. She buried her face in his coat, breathing in its fragrance. It contained notes of woodfire and the way that the horses on her farm always smelled when her father let them run freely in the rain. Her weary mind worked through its pain and confusion, allowing a memory to materialize of when she was very small, years before the fire in the schoolhouse took her father's strength away.

It was the eve of her first solo ride, shortly after Buttercup had been trained to wear a saddle. She had thrown Mabel from her back and into the corral's metal fence. Not once, not twice. Again and again, the stubborn little palomino would reject its rider. William would stand by, ready and willing to kiss her wounds and tell her that it was more than acceptable if she never wanted to ride again. Never once did that thought cross Mabel's mind. The tiny, spirited girl, would ask for nothing more than a boost so that she might ascend the horse's back and try to ride all over again. Buttercup pushed her as far as she could go and in that final attempt, jumped the gate and headed out into the field. That was the moment that Mabel knew her calling, when she harnessed the horse's power with her infinitesimal hands, brought the beast to a halt and returned to her to the corral in a steady, obedient trot. She didn't realize how much blood had been drawn, how bruised her little bones were until William lifted her from Buttercup's back and held her close.

He sunk his lips into her chubby cheek just as it became damp with tears. "You, dear girl, are indestructible." That was the origin of Mabel's favorite lie. "I don't know where on earth it comes from."

"From watching you. I want to be just like you, Fa." As memory and reality reached their intersection, Mabel mumbled those same words, just loud enough for Wilkins to hear. They made no sense to him, no sense at all, but registered, instead, in Mabel's heart. There was no parting from that image, that deep ambition that had followed her around since birth. She would never stop idolizing her father, regardless of his sins. Her path was set in stone, imprinted deeply by his footsteps, she would follow him to the ends of the earth, across every plain of reality. That was why she was there. To follow William to whatever end. She slept soundly, cradled by Captain Wilkins and encased in that sensory memory of her father. He was out there, somewhere in those same woods and that thought seemed to bring her peace.

William knew exactly where he was going. It was not the journey or the distance that weighted him, nor was it the endless possibility of riding past a wounded or defeated Mabel without seeing her. He did not realize the peril that he was in because the loss of Annabelle had caused his other wound to go numb. His party was broken, scattered throughout the marshland and he was vulnerable, alone, a glaring red target for any nearby marksman to take down. The musket ball that he had taken to the thigh, moments before Annabelle left him, burrowed deeper into his muscle with every stride. He did not think of stopping, he only thought of Mabel's tenacity. Something inside of him, be it intuition or a foolish whim, told William that it was through his example that Mabel found her strength. To further that meditation, however, he also knew that the girl who had mysteriously, miraculously proved to be his daughter, was so much stronger than he would ever be.

"She is safe," the winds seemed to say. "You must look after yourself now."

If the noise of his breaking heart had been only a fraction softer, William would have heard Annabelle's voice in full, reaching out for him on the breeze. As it was, her watchful presence only made him mourn deeper. The lavender on her flesh, the waves of rose that lingered in her hair, wrapped around him. She was trying to comfort him, but it was anything but comforting. Her memory was torture. He had dreamt of every agonizing moment that followed Marigold's death, but it had not prepared him for feeling the life leaving Annabelle's body or standing beside her silent, white form in a pool of candlelight. By ensuring him that Mabel was safe, the ghost of Annabelle was inadvertently encouraging him that his mission was complete. That he had her permission to join her in death.

He turned the reins, if he could set Bellamy on the path to Fort Carolina, the horse would run there instead of to the encampment where Mabel had been taken. It was not an honorable way to die, it was a coward's death, one that would revoke his name of any honor. But William knew that after he had taken away his own life, he would simply fall into Annabelle's arms and find peace. The forest path untangled itself, turning straight as an arrow once it found the river. He remembered the night that he watched her bathe in its waters. It was not long ago, at all, when his only pain was the desire to ravish his poetess on the riverbank and fall asleep on her heaving breast. He alone would forever change her thoughts and exchange her innocence for wisdom and lust as he stole away her breath and altered her beating heart. It should have been his love to do this, not gunfire, not death. It should have been painful to dismount and walk across the ground to the black, ice cold waters. He left all of his possessions behind, carrying only his pistol and a single round of ammunition. As he limped, the ribbon that he had tied to the weapon's handle fluttered in the breeze.

"There is poetry," he whispered as he cut through the waves, kneeling halfway through so that the shallow water rose halfway to his chest, "… there is poetry, is there not? In the end that I have chosen for myself? What if our two spirits can reside in this intrepid river? Will we live forever, then? Will our souls wash ashore every century or so, live out our destinies and twist and flow and turn again after we are gone? Is there anything on earth, Annabelle, that is so fearsome and calm? So timeless and unending as a river and the mighty sea that birthed it? I once sought immortality through victory, through how many accomplishments I had to my name. Not once did I suspect that my one glimpse of immortality would come in the form of a sweet girl and her jar of fireflies. Your words, those darling poems that everyone in Waterford so hatefully dismissed reached closer to immortality than my merits as a soldier ever did. If I do live forever, it will be by love and so, it is through love and the pain of love lost that I choose to die."

 **A/N: This one was a bit of a shortie. The final chapter, which is "in production" right now, should hopefully make up for it in length and content. I might end up splitting it into two chapters, depending on how I feel once it is complete. Also, William got super melodramatic in that last bit of text, but he is a Shakespeare fan, after all! Lol. Hopefully, it managed to portray his emotions without being too "abstract". Thanks again for continuing to read my stories and support my work. (Nice to see you again, Guest!) X**


	24. A Story for Annabelle

An instant, a second, a single swing of the pendulum and it would all be over at last. The brashness of his father that soon moved to neglect, the ridicule that he received during his schooling and as a young soldier in the Americas and that ruthless, misguided flirtation with glory would soon be wiped clean from William Tavington's conscience. The bullet's journey, he believed, should be just as calculated as every trek and field mission that he charted out for his dragoons. He knew where to aim to end his life in an instant, but William did not resolve to this. His wicked eyes had strayed across the room when Solomon was binding Annabelle's breast. He worked down his ribcage, the entry wound would be identical to hers, the pistol would stay locked in his hands, even after he washed ashore and that white ribbon would wave above his shattered heart in surrender. It was a pretty enough death, he wagered, poetic enough to satisfy his Annabelle and declare a message to his daughter should his dragoons be the ones to find him.

Annabelle's ribbon kissed the rough framework of his hand as William drew in a final breath. This gesture was not great enough to keep him from cocking the weapon. It would take playfulness, surprisingly enough, from the clever spirit of Annabelle Casey to save him. In the palm her hand, which would appear to you and I as nothing but a small, arced breeze, she captured a tiny wave and splashed the water onto the pistol, dampening its gunpowder. As the shot was fired, the ammunition remained in its place. The weapon coughed, releasing a spark of weak and dying embers that soon fluttered into the water. Once William decided to kill another man, that poor soul was as good as dead. He had never lost a battle, never missed a single shot and his blade always struck true. The only man The Butcher had ever failed to defeat was himself.

There were other options in his saddlebag and the misfire was much too quiet to signal the handsome warhorse of his rider's demise and send him running down the forest path and towards Fort Carolina. As William's foot pivoted, it locked onto a branch in the riverbed and he received a sharp reminder of the injury in his thigh. If the river wanted him, he was broken enough to allow it to claim him. Sinking was easy, drawing the black water into his lungs as if it was nothing more than air was a beautiful and calming act before his body alerted his placid mind with panic. In that single moment of peace, he felt a pair of arms. They were not pulling him to the surface, nor were they bearing down on him in a desperate embrace. They were small arms, tanned by constant exposure to the sun with rough, but tiny hands. Although he was submerged in water, he could smell Marigold's stash of incense, feel one of her many soft, canary yellow blankets against the back of his neck and the warm, damp trickling of tears from the child's cheek as the touched they side of his face.

"I forgive you, Fa," little Mabel whispered, "for not loving me my whole life and for blaming me after Ma left. I know that your life was very complicated and very sad… and that I was just a small part of it. But you… you were my whole life, you were my only friend—my best friend. You were my hero. You are right where you belong and have always wanted to be right now. You are with Ma. But… "William could feel her small fingers sink into the fabric of his shirt and her tearful face burn like a furnace as all of the grief, all of the pain that her body could hold, combusted into a heart-wrenching sob. It was a secret sound, a sound that Mabel Tavington had only ever shared with her beloved, departed father. "But I would give anything, my happiness, my comfort, my life. I would give anything and everything if I could tell you how much I love you and hear you say that you love me, too. Just one more time. If I could feel you hug me again and have my heart fill up with such gratitude, just like it always has and always will, to know that God chose me out of all the little girls in the world to have you as her Fa. Sometimes, late at night, I heard you whisper to Ma that you would find her again. That you would always find one another no matter what."

From downstairs, the side door opened and closed with a harmless clatter. A casual tapping of feet could be heard. Whoever was down there had a key to get in and not so much as a suspicion that William was gone. Mabel stifled her tears and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Find me, too, Fa. Or let me find you. Let me be a part of the forever that you share with Ma, just for a little while and I will never ask for anything again." She seemed to recognize the incoming footfalls and held tight to her father, kissing his cheek as the last of those secret tears evaporated into strength, "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you…" William did not catch a glance of who was at the door, he was too entranced by the strength of little Mabel Tavington, who wasn't even ten years of age. "He fell asleep," Mabel explained without turning, "he fell asleep and didn't wake up."

That sunlit room in the farmhouse crossed over William's eyes like a simple passage of light on the ocean floor. He could still feel a gentle embrace, but it was different this time. Mabel's freckled cheek was traded for the luminous blush of his Annabelle. Those white, slender fingers with their backwards tilt had always reminded him so much of the petals of a calla lily flower. Hers were beautiful hands, enchanted hands, hands that God had blessed with a rare gift to craft simple words into tangible arrangements of poetry and prose. She invited him to stand, but not without giving him that sweet, simple kiss that he had seen, alive on her lips since that morning by the apple tree. He could have deepened it, devoured its innocence with his desire, but he merely welcomed it as an undeserved gift.

"We are together now?" He asked in a broken whisper. In the place of words, he was given a second contact from the lips of his virgin bride. It would be so easy for him now, to take her virtue away. He could not look at her without remembering the pleasure that Marigold had given his eager body. The fabric of the white tunic was sheer and he could tear through her bandaging like a ravenous beast if he so desired. But the purity and softness of her lips went beyond any indulgence known to man. Despite his needs and impulses, he knew that Annabelle was here with him now for a greater purpose than the joys of intimacy.

"Will you walk with me?" Annabelle whispered, and it was so.

They moved through the trees and the moonlight, their hands and fingers intertwined. William never knew Annabelle to be quiet or cryptic, but she was that night. She was no longer the talkative girl from Waterford, but a stoic and radiant spirit, older than the trees, the river and the sky. When the land arced and the trees receded, they moved across a sloping hill that was home to an endless variety of flowers. The buds were dormant, sleeping beauties waiting patiently for the sun to part the clouds of winter. Those flowers appeared to be the field's only occupants, but as Annabelle led William through the dreamscape of moonlight and sleeping flowers, he saw that they were not alone. Solomon Casey had followed William's request exactly. The other continentals did not elect to help him and so, the grave that he had created for his daughter was barely passable. He knelt in the ground, just as William had knelt in the river. The silhouette of the girl in his arms reminded William of every flower that surrounded them, not wilted, but merely sleeping as her limp form was given to the cold earth.

"We must move closer," Annabelle nudged him forward, "I need you to hear his words."

Quietly, William admitted his weakness and begged Annabelle to allow him to shut his eyes as they approached the grave. "I was there when you died, Annabelle. I buried Marigold once before. I'm afraid that if I live this nightmare again, all of the bonds of strength that are holding my spirit together will break apart."

"Then listen," she held him near, "just listen."

"Do you remember, little hummingbird, before Scarlett and Delilah were born? When it was just you and me and your mother? You were restless. Absolutely restless. You were the only little girl on God's green earth to go for weeks at a time without sleeping. Without talking, too! We would let Mama sleep and I would stay up with you. I could never understand how someone so small, who had just barely learned to spell her own name and seen so little of the world could have so much to say. We didn't need storybooks or fairytales. We created our own stories, you and I!" Solomon's voice stopped in its tracks and foolishly, William opened his eyes and glanced into that shallow grave. The middle-aged schoolteacher with flaxen hair and round spectacles on the tip of his nose, was holding his daughter's hand to his cheek. Although his memories of Marigold were limited only to dreams, he could recall doing the same, if only to feel his own warmth preside over the icy horizon of her flesh, if only to feel her comfort him one last time.

"Was I a good father to you, Annabelle? I prayed every night for the strength and the wisdom to give a treasure like you exactly what you needed to remain content. I knew that you were different. I knew how lonely you would become and so I…" Solomon continued, grief nearly stealing his voice away. He rearranged his thoughts and allowed himself a moment to simply cry. "I lived inside my books before I met your mother. Stories were all that I knew and still, your imagination exceeded my own tenfold. I wish to tell you a story now. One final story for you before I say goodnight and leave you here to sleep a while beneath the stars. I fear that it won't come close to the spectacular tales that we forged on those sleepless nights in our farmhouse; simply because it will be without your beautiful contributions but… you should know why I brought you here. In part, it was for your William. You see, Hummingbird, while I prayed for God to teach me how to be the best father for you that I could possibly be, I also asked that He would guide you, when the time was right, to a man who could see you in the same light that He and I do. A man who could encourage you to always be Annabelle and no one else.

"I remember the first time that you mentioned William in your letters, the love that you sensed in him for every petal on each flower, every leaf on each tree and every firefly in the skies over South Carolina. While my fellow officers and I were trudging through the marshlands together, I met an older sergeant named Appleby. In the evenings while our muscles were still resonating with pain from the day's march, I would do my best to teach him how to read and write so that he might send a letter to a woman he once loved up North in Virginia. He never sent that letter, but asked that I finish it and send it in his stead. He asked me just last week before dying on the surgeon's table and said that in exchange for my kindness and friendship, he would give me the deed to ten acres of magical land where every flower you can dare to name grows harmoniously on the hills and the cannons of war are no more than a faint echo in the distance. After the war, I plan on taking everything I own and moving into the schoolhouse. I have no need or desire for land, but judging by what you revealed to me in your letters, I believe that it might be what William was after all along.

"So, that is why I give you to these peaceful hills. It is the best that I can do knowing that I will never give you away at the altar. Beneath your joyfulness and curiosity, I know that you harbored the loneliest soul that Waterford had ever seen. You loved your town and your community, but taking you home to your sisters in the churchyard instead of here where you can wait in silence for the arrival of your William hardly seemed suitable. I have faith that he will come to find you, that he will build a new life in the colonies around your memory. Until then, I pray that you will find happiness here. Share your poems and hum your sweet melodies to the flowers that grow over and all around you. Give them your warmth and your light, encourage them to wake from their slumber as the frosts disappear on the breeze and springtime illuminates the world once more. He will find you. Oh, yes, sweet child, William will find you. Until then, he shall meet you in his dreams. I shall, too. Those who loved you needn't look very far. You are to remain forever immortalized in all things beautiful and bright." Solomon returned Annabelle's hand to her side. The spirit in William's arms turned away, just long enough to kneel beside her crying father. She touched a tear that had just formed in the corner of Solomon's eye and the kindhearted schoolteacher stopped, sensing her the presence of her spirit. "Was I a good father to you, Annabelle?" He asked again.

"You were," she whispered, "you were my whole life, my only friend- my best friend. You were my hero." Annabelle paused, giving her father one more moment of consolation. Then she turned to William once more, "This story that we are living inside, you and I, all trails back to the bond between a father and his daughter. It is not too late. Are you ready, my darling? Are you ready to return to Mabel?"


	25. Hidden Mercies

Mabel had two coats now—her own and the one that Captain Wilkins had covered her with as she slept. It was too cold, too early for birdsong but his fumbling was just noisy enough to make her mind drop from the cloudy levitation of deep slumber. The river was nearby, she could hear it and smell the stale, frosted leaves that had bunched into dark clumps against its bank. They were deep in the woods, all that could be seen of the heavens were the smallest patches of blackness and starlight between the skeletal fingers of the trees. Mabel watched her companion. His back was turned, and he was hunched over an oblong campfire. The popping resonation of boiling water sounded from within a small, metal vessel and when Wilkins lifted his kettle from the fire and poured it into whatever makeshift cup or bowl that he had found, Mabel gained a sensory awareness of what he was doing. She breathed in, deeply and grinned contently to herself. So, he was the resident coffee brewer.

Before, Mabel had guessed that her mind merely elected to take her back to her childhood in Waterford in the early hours of the morning. Jake and Giselle ordered their coffee on the road, but her father would make it from scratch in the farmhouse. He would grind the beans, himself, boil water on the stovetop and run it through the Aeropress that Marigold had left behind. What's more, Mabel took it upon herself to learn how to do all of this for William when he was no longer able to. There was no escaping the association, the inflow of memories—happy and sad, that overcame her with every breath. Wilkins must have sensed her quiet stirring because he stood upright and, purely out of the kindness of his heart, delivered a steaming metal cup just for Mabel to the corner of her blanket.

"Mind your digits, Missy," he said with a yawn, "it's quite hot."

She knew that Wilkins would prefer that she not sit or stand. Her wound had scabbed over, and it would be acceptable to do so but caution warned against it. Ever the rebellious one, Mabel shot upright with haste and gave the captain a subtle, sideways smirk. His feet had decided to turn towards the warmth of the campfire, but he held them in place just long enough to take in her expression. She had mumbled in her sleep, revealing concepts that Wilkins dismissed as pure nonsense. Looking at the stubborn child now, there was no doubt in his mind that every proclamation was true. "I am proud that you are my Fa," she had muttered over and over that night, "I am proud to call myself a Tavington." Her eyes were pale blue flames, burning with intelligence and ambition. She smiled with them, the way that her father did when victory was close at hand. Caseys, too, he had known. He was not the only man to mistake Mabel for Annabelle. The evidence that she had presented in her dreams was enough to make him ask.

"You are not of this time, are you, Mabel Tavington?" He laughed at himself, the words were even more outrageous when said aloud.

Her stare lowered to where the faint breeze that beheaded the steam on the tin cup lived and flowed. Every time, a new cloud would regenerate to replace the one that had blown away. Wilkins assumed that she would not answer or would once she found the right words to say. He left her there in thought and moved to the fire to warm his bones, drink his coffee and feel embarrassed for a while. "You remind me of someone," her voice emerged at last, "back home in Waterford. My Waterford, that is. In the time that I come from. He owns this large store. Very large. It could swallow the entire village of Pembroke whole! He used to play football, minor league. Could have played major league, too, if he didn't retire so early. But he's a town hero, nonetheless." Mabel stopped herself just long enough to laugh. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"You hit your head rather hard," Wilkins smiled at her from over the top of his cup, "come and sit with me. I would like to hear more."

She gathered up the blanket and the two wool coats, returning the one that belonged to Wilkins with an appreciative nod. "According to my godmother, his family name was Wilkins. So, I suppose the similarity stands to reason. He's a quiet person, but very helpful. He's been taking custom orders from me since the first time that I started competing!"

"Competing in… foot… ball?"

Mabel just barely managed to swallow her laughter. "Dressage. My godfather, Jake describes it as an 'equestrian sport', but I prefer to think of it as an artform! But that doesn't matter anymore, not really. I don't know if I'll ever compete again. See, here's what I never understood about Waterford until recently. You can work your whole life for a something there, you can build a house or a business with your bare hands, you can find the person who you've prayed for all your life and who has been praying for no one else but you—you can find your soulmate in Waterford and the second that you think that you are safe and life is good, it all goes to hell. I used to go into that store for a saddle pad or a new pair of boots and wonder what happened to him. Why someone who was so close to success would ever come back to that sad little town. Then Giselle told me that he didn't want to make the drive every week from Raleigh to visit his high school sweetheart's grave. He moved back to be closer to her. She had one of those names, too. Just like yours. A name that dates back to the birth of Waterford. Fa won't fight anymore. When we are back together, you will be free to return home to Virginia. I know that is what you want more than anything. You should take this opportunity to change your destiny while you still can."

"Virginia?" The mere utterance of her name made him smile, if only for a moment before confusion and defensiveness crept in. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know," Mabel lifted the blanket to cover her trembling limbs. "Forget it."

"I've had these nightmares my whole life, that Virginia is locked away somewhere out of sight. Just out of my reach. She is struggling, dying and I have no way of saving her." He shut his eyes, tightening them with every passing second and horrible, fleeting thought. "It will be her father. I know it will. Once he starts drinking, there is no stopping that man. He could not recognize God Himself. Let alone, an angel like Virginia. Is there still time?"

It had been so long since Mabel read the book. The name Tavington could not be found in its pages. It was one of those facts that our minds bury away from our feeble hearts, knowing that a toxin would be released if the truth was processed in full. She knew that it was Captain Wilkins who threw the torch and sealed the fate of every villager in Pembroke—and Virginia's. Only now, on that cold, dark morning, did she discover that it was by the order of his commander that they perished. By merely existing and intervening at such a pivotal moment in the war, perhaps Mabel had spared them all. "Yes, there is still time," this might have been a vow, but she was praying with all her might for it to be true.

…

The harsh noise of metal scraping against metal informed William that he had found the musket ball at last. To extract ammunition from one's own flesh requires a strength that he had yet to find. He had performed this grotesque and painful task before, but would never in all his days, seek nor find familiarity in it. It was excruciating. The gradual tearing of his muscles, the outpour of his dark blood and the sudden 'pop' when the dreadful thing was dislodged at last brought no real release or comfort, even after he began to bind the wound.

"I cannot accept your father's offer, Annabelle," his body curled in pain over the surface of the water. It was ice cold, but not cold enough to bring any relief. Only the spirit that surrounded him, cradling his weakened form, could give him the strength to speak and move. "I will not take anything else from that poor, dear man. Not even his forgiveness. I do not deserve forgiveness," a breath, "What were your sisters names?" Annabelle answered and a new pain moved into William's heart as he heard each name said aloud. "They were beautiful. All three of you were such dazzling treasures. I can still remember that day and can see now how akin you and your sweet sisters are to my Mabel. The thought another man stealing that light from my life… there would be no enduring it, Annabelle. After losing you, I know that losing Mabel would cause my wicked heart such destruction that it would stop beating in my chest and I would fall right through the earth and into hell where I belong. Why do I feel that I must lose her now? Justice? A silent justice for all of the fathers who lost their children by my hand, for every romance and friendship that I cut short?"

"Marigold answered that question for you once. Do you remember? What would she say?" William knew, but did not speak it because there was no believing that it was true. "You feel this way because you are a good man. I loved you instantly because I saw the goodness in you. I know how easy it is for you to linger in despair, but for now at least, let us both dwell on love and pray for our daughter."

William did not want to pray or remain in one place. No, he wanted to ride until he found her, and should he compromise his leg in the process, so be it. God had forsaken him, that was what William believed. What occurred next paid compliment to his theory of a vengeful God. First, the loving presence of Annabelle faded all at once. It did not linger in the air like a veil of mist or the echoing of a church bell's final note, she was gone with the same heartbreaking suddenness as when she departed the world in his embrace. It was a noise that caused the sudden departure of her spirit. A subtle noise, almost entirely masked by the despair of loneliness. Thank heavens for the echo that the cocking pistol made. All those years of military training alerted him first. William knew when he was about to be fired at and his hand prepared to return fire long before he saw Benjamin Martin himself stepping out of the shadows. Then, in that moment, it was impossible to believe in anything but his own doom.

 **A/N: I'm stretching these out a little bit. Kind of like how they split "Return of the King" and "The Deathly Hallows" into two movies. Action-wise, a lot is going to happen in the next chapter or two and I didn't want to jump around too much in this one! Hopefully, you don't mind smaller chapters. (** **Plus, on a slightly selfish note, I get so close to my characters and never want the stories to end! Lol.)** **Thank you for bearing with me! There is much more on the way! X**


	26. No Place That Far - (Final Chapter)

_If I had to run, if I had to crawl,_

 _If I had to swim a hundred rivers_

 _Just to climb a thousand walls._

 _Always know that I would find a way_

 _To get to where you are._

 _There's no place that far._

-Sara Evans

The marksmen were watching in the trees, waiting to have their vengeance, when Mabel and Captain Wilkins approached the camp. William wasn't far at all, he could have seen and heard everything if it hadn't been for the darkness of the woods and the splashing of the river. He was cornered; cornered by his Ghost. Every dragoon was being held at point-blank range and the attack would commence after Benjamin Martin fired his first shot. They listened and waited, hearing only a hushed conversation between the two redcoat captains. It was about the trustworthiness of Mabel, which Bordon did not believe in. Wilkins held on to the unexpected friendship that he had formed with the child hours ago. What she had told him that morning, a simple antidote that had fallen from the lips of his own descendent as he waded through the bottomless grief of losing his young love, soothed him.

Mabel had listened to Darren Baako speak to her godmother as she perused the rows of riding boots in his store. What he had told her was this, "Tristan exited the stage of life too early, yes, but she is not far. She is watching patiently in the wings for this performance to end. There will be other chances, other costumes, sets and scripts- other names that we will go by with new motivations to pursue. I used to think that our forever had ended, but it did not. I am living it right now and will live it again. That is what forever means to me." To know that he was irrevocably bound to Virginia and would remain with her for all eternity was a gift, but there was no explaining this. For now, it was merely a secret that Mabel had passed on to Wilkins. Soon, their conversation became a quarrel that Mabel did not only hear, but that broke every dam within her soul and unleashed every tempest, every blazing fire that flowed through her veins.

"You killed the Martin boy?!" Wilkins stepped away from his comrade, shocked and sickened by what Bordon had revealed. He meant Gabriel of course, but Mabel did not know this. It was still so easy for her to stake the blame that belonged to her father on someone else and Bordon was the ideal scapegoat. "Do you realize what you have done?! You've turned our ghost into a monster!"

Mabel was unarmed, save for the dagger that she carried in her boot. The gap that Wilkins had naturally made between his body and Bordon's was just wide enough for her to move into. One swift motion later, and his back was against a tree and her blade was against his throat. "You?! I thought that it was my father all this time and it was you?! I should have known!" As her voice swelled, it carried through air, sifting through the trees as effortlessly as a cloud of fog. Benjamin lowered his weapon, but not his eyes. They stayed locked on William's and watched as the threat that he wore so naturally dissolved into surrender and concern. "Yes, he is my father!" Mabel continued to blare in the distance, her fury growing, "Yes, I am _the butcher's daughter_! But the only butcher I see here is you!"

"I beg you," William's strong form buckled under the pain of emotion, "on bended knee, Sir, I beg you. Do what you will to me, but do not harm my child."

There was no initial shot. But the moment that the Ghost decided to spare the Butcher, Bordon unveiled his truth to Mabel and every onlooker in and around the encampment. "I did not kill Thomas Martin," he told her, almost sympathetically. "That was your father. Let me tell you, Mabel, I could not look Tavington in the eye for days thereafter. He had to coax me away from the farm because I was so aghast. No children. We would not kill children. That was his promise to me when we left New York. I did not kill Thomas Martin," he repeated, "I killed the other one. The older one because he wished ill on my own son. I regret it every day and will carry that regret for the remainder of my life. How could he possibly have known? Why I, a common man from New Jersey, fight so ruthlessly for the crown? It is because of what the rebels did to my son when he was only five years old." The pressure on Bordon's throat was relieved and before he could proceed with his explanation, he spied a young militiaman in the trees, who had moved out of position, intent on avenging Gabriel Martin. "To arms!" Bordon cried to the others. "To arms!"

Mabel did not have time to react. Bordon grabbed her shoulder, switching their positions and shielding her. He started to direct his men. Had he been successful, a protective ring would have been formed around Mabel, but after he hit his mark and the first rebel fell, the brutal ambush began. Neither Wilkins nor Bordon surrendered their position and it was for this reason that they were most vulnerable of the dragoons. Wilkins was the first to fall in that terrible barrage of gunfire and it was her loyalty to him that kept Mabel at bay. She reached for him. He seemed confused by what had happened and indeed, the shock and terror of hunting for a single entry wound, only to discover that it had taken a hailstorm of ammunition to bring him down, was cause enough for his mind to leave the earth before his spirit. He simply looked skyward, greeting the red glow of that January dawn.

"A stage," a smile, of all things, graced his handsome features just as quickly as his coloring drained from them, "that is all this world of ours is, Virginia. And I shall wait in the wings for you, watching with fond admiration as you live out the remainder of your days. Yes, the fondest admiration, my Virginia, and the deepest love."

The grip that Wilkins had on his pistol loosened and Mabel accepted it, as though it was retribution for each collective shot that had cut his life short. She didn't allow any time to feel his loss and simply left him there, on a bed of tree roots and mud, to watch the sky fill with light. Bordon, too, was lost. Yet, he endured the assault for a while longer. In the corner of his eye, he saw Mabel rise to her feet and return fire with the secondhand pistol. She saw the destruction at last. Her entire company, her father's men had been both outnumbered and slain in a single sweep. A rogue shot, intended for her protector, spun through the air. Her ears started to ring, her vision blurred, and it was Bordon who knew before she did that it had torn into the flesh of her upper abdomen. Framed between two trees, Benjamin Martin appeared and with a mighty yell, called for the firing to end. He, too, saw the peril that Mabel was in- that spillage of red on the white of her shirt. She didn't seem to notice and tried to keep Bordon on his feet.

"Don't you dare," she demanded, aggressively, as the burly captain fell beside the body of James Wilkins. "Don't you dare! You will not go, too! That is an order!"

Although his strength was fading, he had just enough to hold his hand to Mabel's injury. "Help has arrived for you. You cannot give me orders, but I can give them to you. Allow yourself to be saved and return to your father."

This was the first time that Mabel truly saw him smile. "You protected me. Why did you protect me after everything that I said about you?"

"I loved a stubborn woman once. Believe me, I have been called much worse than a… baritone weasel-goblin. That and you remind me of your father. Before his own ambitions swept him away, tossed him about on a violent sea and changed him. Turned him into something that neither of us could foresee. I could be wrong, but it seems to me that you were the one to save him. For that, I am grateful to you. Thank you, young Tavington. Thank you."

The sinking ache of her own mortality consumed Mabel as she watched Bordon's face grow vacant. "Thank you," she murmured, receiving only silence. Benjamin approached her, she could hear his footsteps. She was about to speak but realized that her tongue was coated with the metallic flavor of her own blood. The bodies of those who had fallen on the riverbank were being prodded and turned by the hungry tides. There was a space between Bordon and Wilkins, stony and welcoming. It beckoned to her in the same way that her warm cot did at the end of a long, cold day in the saddle. Her head was heavy, and every extremity bore a new weight of extreme exhaustion. But Mabel did not collapse, surrounded on either side by her father's most prided soldiers. Instead, she was caught by his enemy and carried away.

The river ran red and the heavens above, too, seemed to fill with blood. The static hum in her ears, the frigid numbness that began at her fingertips and moved inward to her core without delay or apology and the stride of Benjamin Martin, all suggested to Mabel that she had been swept away by those same waters. To die in motion, she thought, would have more merit than surrendering to stillness. To die in motion, constant motion, would hardly be like dying at all. As the morning light filled the shadows on the forest floor, the rogue and vibrant wildflower that was Mabel Tavington wilted. Her head and arms hung slack over the vessel of Benjamin's embrace. Despite all discomfort, William stood and walked towards the man who cradled his daughter, falling back to the ground only after she was in his arms.

"Mabel," William's sleeve remained damp from earlier and he touched its corner to her lips where blood was beading. "My child."

There was still a shallow breath or two that remained in Mabel's breast and he saw it rise. There was one more glance left in her eyes, one more smile left on her lips. Each one was the heaviest weight that she ever had to carry, but she gave them all to him. "You know now?"

"Know, Mabel? Know? I could find you in any crowd, no matter how vast! You have her beauty. You have my eyes," as he looked upon her, every dream and vision that he had ever seen of his daughter played out before him. He saw the only unclaimed, unloved baby girl in the rows of cribs at the hospital nursery, he saw that single moment at Marigold's grave when she had consoled him by wrapping her tiny hand around his finger, he saw every piggyback ride, every laugh, tear and embrace that they had ever shared.

Mabel, too, was lost in a vision. But it pulled her away from him and towards something else. "I can see him, Fa," she whispered, so breathlessly that it was barely audible, "I can see Thomas. He is reaching out to me and I must go."

"Take my hand, sweet girl. Look at me. Before you go ahead without me, you must know that I will always find you." His words were swift and clear. Mabel anchored her hand in his, listening to each syllable and granting him a smile in exchange for that most powerful of vows. It was her mother's smile that he saw, that same look of joy and relief that she had given William in her final moment—and Mabel's first. So, with Marigold's smile on her lips, Mabel relaxed into the eternal stillness of death. He did not blink, he did not breathe or make room in his mind for a single thought, he merely savored her smile for its brief life. From all around, the militia gathered, and the Ghost told them to hold their fire. Though it would have given them all great satisfaction to bring the Butcher down, they listened to their commander. "I surrender," William's voice quivered as he made one last voyage through the diminishing tempest in his daughter's pale eyes. "I am retiring my old definitions of legacy and victory. You see, she is my legacy. To say that I am her father, that is my greatest victory."

This was the end of the Green Dragoons. William might have appeared to be the last, but his defeat was just as ultimate as the others. They left him there, among the dead, never to fight again. The red sky turned to gold and the sun wove through the branches of the trees, warming him like God's own grace. He expected that once he found the will to close her eyes in sleep, she would appear less like him. As the sunlight touched her hair, its chestnut shade lightened to the color of her mother's fragrant locks. In appearance, she was undeniably Annabelle's and Marigold's, but also his. The freckles on her nose refused to pale, the parting of her lips barely displayed the tiny notch between her front teeth. These subtleties whispered memories into his ear of his own reflection, of the lonesome, headstrong boy that he was back in Liverpool. His hand paused midair, there was such temptation to shield his own face, but it was pulled instead to her brow. Though any trace of that sweet smile had vanished, the dying embers of her mighty spirit lingered for several minutes. Only when he was certain that all of Mabel was gone, did his hand sweep downwards across her tender eyelids.

"She looks like me even now," William thought aloud. "She was my own, all along. Even now." He pulled Mabel closer, so that her chin touched his shoulder and the side of her cold face touched his cheek. "I will find you," he continued to say until those words stung the back of his throat. All that he had ever worked for lay in ruin all around him. His legacy and victory lay broken in his arms. There was no spirit in the air, no calming word from Annabelle. So, he closed his eyes and prayed, seeking any serenity that he might find in this, his darkest and loneliest hour.

What appeared was the land that Solomon Casey was destined to give him. It was not Ohio, not suited for the great aristocrat that he strived to become after the war. It was, instead, a splendid expansion of fertile ground to till and tend to on into old age. He would become a farmer, the occupation that he longed for as a boy, much to his father's dismay. He would build his home there, not far from the graves of his beloved wife and darling daughter. With this vision in mind, he found Mabel's saddlebag and prepared for their final ride together. It was a ride that he would not miss for all the world and so, the aching of his wound was not great enough to anchor him in those woods.

William rode to his new home, holding tightly and carefully to her body as though she had merely fallen asleep on his breast. When preparing her grave beside Annabelle's he pretended that she would sleep there and nothing more. The uniform that she had worn hardly seemed to suit its purpose anymore, so William replaced her soldier's coat for the handsome black riding blazer that her own identity seemed to be sewn into, buttoning over the dark patch of drying blood. The flowers that grew there had yet to blossom, so when he composed her hands, he placed between them the silver bee necklace that had followed her on this journey and that he dared not to keep for himself.

"This has been my greatest fear for many months now," he told them both, "to somehow outlive you. Had I been a better man, I might have saved you. Even now, I find it impossible to let go of the dream of meeting you again after the final cannon's roar. I can still see you, Annabelle standing on sands as soft and fair as your lilywhite feet and Mabel… my beautiful, fearless Mabel, I know how loyally you would await my arrival. The moment that my sails appeared on the horizon, you would swim out to me without a second thought. I would be the happiest man aboard, the proudest man. I would have saved you, but God would not have it that way. Instead, He saw to it that you would save me. We shall not meet again in such a manner, on distant sands and rolling waters. No, this is where I will find you. Here, among your wildflowers. I will live beside you, a friend to this land, and will carry the lessons that you taught me of courage and love until my dying day. When that day comes, here on this hilltop I will rest, and look over the life that I made for myself in this country. In your memory. Thank you for finding me, for loving me and saving me. Without you, I would have surely been lost."

…

It was another golden afternoon in midsummer. A gentle breeze rained down from the sky, causing the wildflowers below to bob and sway in a mesmerizing dance. It passed over the rolling hills, traipsing the pastures where the horses grazed, payed visit to the sunflowers and bright red tomatoes in the side garden and slipped into the open windows of the farmhouse. Nobody was inside to feel it; the rooms had been vacated in the wake of the summer's harvest. There was work to be done, so the house merely stood in repose as its owners worked the fields, fed the livestock and sought out the apiary's sweet, golden honey. Nobody was inside, save for the girl who lived behind the easternmost window on the second floor and her companion. It had been almost a year since Mabel felt or saw anything. Yet, something as small, as ephemeral as a wave of air that carried every smell, every memory and ghost that she had grown up with on her farm, would remove Mabel from her slumber, at last.

It seemed to reach inside of her and gradually, playfully, bring her to the surface so that she could feel the sensation of another constant motion. Her right hand, raw and bandaged from being hooked up to an IV for so long was being stroked and held. The light stung at first and as she blinked the pain out of her eyes, she felt that hand, rough from years of labor, tighten around her own. The voice that the hand belonged to was just as distorted and strange, but she knew that he had been watching her close enough, praying for her recovery and anticipating that moment with such loyalty and love. He helped her merely by calling her name again and again until at last, she was found.

"Welcome home, Kid." This was the softest, the sweetest that Tommy's voice had ever sounded to her.

She contemplated how far she had traveled in a single blink- from her father's arms to the outstretched hand of young Thomas Martin and now, in her childhood bedroom, with someone who she had staked such blame upon and felt such hatred towards in her previous life. "Where am I?"

"You were put on outpatient last week," he spoke slowly, so that Mabel would not miss his explanation, "but not without a fight. We wanted you to be home. Not there. When you…" his eyes broke contact and tears, of all things, tears, began to build their thick wall over his line of sight, "so, this is what it is like to witness a miracle! You see, we were all so certain that you would never wake up! That you would never come back to us… and here you are!"

Mabel's grip on his hand remained. He was so like Thomas Martin. He was charming, and kind and she had never seen it before because she was too preoccupied blaming him for what had happened to her father. "We?"

"Your parents and I," Tommy explained, casually, "Jake and Giselle, too."

"My parents," her heart sprung to life so quickly that she had to sit upright, she had to stand and walk and find them. Questions, thousands of them, swarmed and clustered at the tip of her tongue. But the same breeze that brought her back into the world bore each answer that she sought. She heard her father's voice and traced it. He could be seen through the window above her bed, beckoning his wife to his side. Mabel watched just long enough to see how gracefully they met beneath the yellow sun. As Marigold embraced him, she saw that he was crying.

"I cannot live on this land anymore," he told her, "I'm afraid to step foot in our house because I know what is coming. Everything that I see here reminds me of our little girl and all that we were before. How can life possibly go on while we are here, waiting for our child to die?"

Lovingly, Marigold pressed her forehead to her husband's, bearing no mind to his tears as they jumped to her cheeks and lips. "She is home. That is the best that we can do for her right now. We are all right where we need to be. Our lifetimes are nothing more than seasons to this place. You and I and our sweet girl are part of a greater legacy. Nothing ever dies here, William, not really."

It wasn't strength or stubbornness, it was love that sent Mabel running so fast that she tore her arm from the drip. Tommy, startled as he was, made his best efforts to catch her. No man alive could. Barefoot and clothed in nothing more than a cotton nightgown, she burst through the side door. The gravel below her feet snagged her toes and cut into the once rough skin on her heels, but she didn't feel a thing. William saw her first, then Marigold. He tried to run and meet her halfway but was grounded immediately by the impact that her presence had on his heart. The moment that his arms wrapped around his daughter, he dropped to his knees, as did she.

"I found you, Fa!" Mabel cried, "I never stopped looking. I never stopped praying. Now, I've found you both at last!"

Marigold watched, giving them several seconds-worth of time before touching her hand to Mabel's back and falling into their silently tearful embrace. Mabel might have asked if she was dreaming; if they were real or mere apparitions, but there was nothing so realistic as the conversation between her parents' hearts. The nearer that they nestled, the louder those heartbeats sounded, one in each ear. The ghost of Marigold's rose perfume that wove through her lonely childhood home was fresh and new. From out of the corner of her eye, Mabel stole her first real glance of her mother. No picture that Giselle had shown her goddaughter came close to her living beauty. She was elegant, yet humble; cheerful and bright with soft hands and a radiant smile. A golden braid tied off with a white ribbon hung over her left shoulder and beneath the denim of her overall dress, she wore a yellow eyelet shirt. It was older, softer and smelled the way that fresh laundry does on the line. Everything that Mabel had ever heard of her mother was true and now, she could make sensory memories with her of her very own.

"Ma," comfort, unlike anything she had ever felt before, washed over Mabel as Marigold gave her two, tiny kisses. The first, at the center of her forehead and the second on the bridge of her nose. It was subconscious, natural. Mabel knew that her mother had given her that same kiss every time that she embraced her, dating back to that first embrace moments after she was born. "I've missed you."

"I tried to catch her, Tavs, but that kid…" Tommy's voice echoed from across the lawn, its usual humor returning with every word, "before resigning from steeplechase, please reconsider. She doesn't need a horse! She can run and make every jump on the track by herself!"

"The steeplechase," Mabel began her ascent and looked out across the field to the stables. Her parents, bewildered, followed suit. "I really messed up, didn't I? I should have known better. Buttercup was just too old to compete." William and Marigold, even Tommy appeared to be confused by what she was saying. "She's gone, isn't she? I finished dead last and my Nimbus 2000 flew right into the Whomping Willow!"

Tommy, at least, laughed. "You finished _second_ , Mabel Tavington! I know, I know! Second place is first loser! But you still made the papers. Which I know you always like to hear! The severe head trauma and coma, well… that was the real doozy! As for your Nimbus 2000, she merely threw a shoe." There was silence, but in it Mabel and Tommy smiled knowingly at one another. "Buttercup is just fine! I've taken care of her, myself! Just for you!"

They followed Mabel, inevitably, to where the palomino stood grazing in the pasture. It was as though William hadn't missed a single day of trailing his eager daughter around the farm. He half expected that she would climb on the horse's back and was not prepared to see her ride again so soon, but that did not happen. With perfect trust, the young girl stroked the animal's flaxen coat and leaned gently against her in a sideways hug. "Those victories were yours," she told her, and Buttercup seemed to listen, "you were the picture of excellence all these years, not me. A perfect horse deserves a perfect retirement and I see no better place for you than right here. I will visit you every day. You won't compete again, and neither will I. That was our adventure that we shared. Now, it's time for us both to start anew." Mabel breathed deeply. It was a steep and treacherous jump from a great height, but she knew that she would have to take it. "Farm Boy!" She turned to Tommy with a sneer. "I can very nearly see my own reflection in this horse's coat. Impressive. I have also done the math and, assuming my calculations are correct and hear you me, they _always_ are, you and I have an age gap that isn't much different from Ma and Fa's! I believe that if you keep up the impeccable work, well, around the time I turn 18, I just might let you buy me a coffee!"

Tommy and Mabel might have kept their faces straight had they caught the subtle glare that William had given them. She laughed first, and Tommy followed. "That's a bit cocky, isn't it, Miss Tavington?"

"It's in my blood," Mabel shrugged it off. "For now, I think I owe my parents a nice evening walk. Perhaps a ride, later, if we are all feeling up to it. You're invited, too, Tommy. Assuming you can keep up with me!"

"As you wish!" This time, he managed to see William's face and their tiny flirtation simmered down, immediately. "That was intended for Buttercup, of course… Oh! And I believe Miss Tavington has an extra pair of boots in the stable. I'm sure you two don't want her running around without anything on those pretty little tootsies of hers. So, I'll just… grab those."

As Tommy disappeared behind the stable door, Marigold began to fuss with her daughter's hair. It was the kind of motherly thing that most young girls would find annoying. Mabel simply treasured having her there, performing a casual task that she had always done, even when Mabel's baby hair was too fine to hold any sort of style. From inside her chest, there came the faintest echo of a hum and when she was satisfied with the pristine ponytail that Mabel had always favored, she held her child in her arms. William seemed agitated. He paced several times before heading to where Tommy was collecting Mabel's boots. "Be nice to that boy!" Marigold demanded, garnering no word from him.

Mother and daughter stood, tensely awaiting to learn what was happening behind those closed doors. Tommy appeared first and, almost obediently knelt in the grass and held each riding boot out for Mabel to step inside of them. He gave her his usual rascally smile, along with a wink and left without saying a word. William, on the other hand, moved outside with two handsome bays that he had saddled for their evening ride. The first horse, he handed off to Marigold and, ever the gentleman, he gave her a boost onto its back. "Your chariot, m'lady," he joked, giving the back of his wife's hand a tiny kiss. "I know you're going to think me overprotective, Bumblebee," William did the same for Mabel, climbing on behind her only after he was certain that she was comfortably situated on the front of the saddle. Mabel sunk deeply into his arms and thanked God for this moment. "21. Then, you can _let_ that boy buy you any drink on the menu. We'll also need to do our evening rides a bit more like this until you can grow accustomed to riding again. Sorry if that seems selfish but see, I want to hold onto you for as long as I possibly can."

As they rode, Mabel encountered a perfect rhapsody of senses that she had never taken full account of. The sunlight kissed the land and its colorful patchwork quilt of crops. The smell of the wildflower honey that Marigold's bees were guarding was aloft on the breeze. All around, there were treasures to be seen and adored on those timeless acres of land—treasures that Mabel had overlooked in her days of youth. Now and then, they would stop to let their horses graze and rest. She would see those sideways glances, those sweet, subtle smiles that Marigold and William shared when they thought that Mabel wasn't looking. They rode to the highest elevation that they could find and gazed down on their property from above. Beyond, the town of Waterford lay glimmering. Perhaps it was by having her there, having a family that was loving and whole, that made the farm so perfect. Perhaps it was the ghosts that lived in the hills. The three graves were grown over now, rendered unrecognizable by the flowers that dominated the fields, but they could be seen from there. Legacy, that was what William understood it to be. Legacy born from victory. I say that it was through destiny that they found each other again.

Fin


End file.
